


Choir of Furies

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bonding, First Time, M/M, Mild Gore, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nightmares Dean has been having aren't his. They belong to Sam. As the dreams begin to escalate, it starts affecting the brothers' awareness of each other, leaving both Sam and Dean struggling to find a new balance in their relationship as the last of their boundaries are stripped from it.</p><p>Podfic version, read by liannabob, can be found <a href="http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1253939.html">here (mp3)</a> and here <a href="http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1254942.html">here (iTunes & Apple compatible)</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, we're finally here. I feel kind of relieved and yeah. This was my first time participating in spn_j2_bigbang and although it was hard, I definitely enjoyed myself.
> 
> Many thanks toaudreytiphaine, because she was incredibly supportive and had to deal with the craziest rants and bouts of 'i hate this fic', also because she took time from her really busy schedule to beta this for me and take me through everything, she's an angel and deserves a medal.
> 
> And also, to my artist melissos for being so wonderful to work with and for the incredible work she did for this fic!
> 
> This felt like a real team effort for me thanks to the two of them and I had great fun participating. And finally, thanks too, to thehighwaywoman and wendy for hosting such an epic challenge!
> 
> I hope you've enjoy the fic and the art ♥
> 
> Art post by melissos [here](http://melissos.livejournal.com/4239.html).

CHOIR OF FURIES

~

It takes Dean a second to understand what's in front of him. He's trying but it's hard. The skin on his face doesn't feel right, the weight and balance of his body, off. He frowns down at his hands as he scrubs them clean under the running water. Recognition hits him a second later and he doesn't need to look up into the mirror to know that it's happening again.

It's there when he looks; Sam's face staring back at him.

As he watches, Sam runs his hands, still wet through his hair, dragging it back from his face. His eyes as he looks himself over in the mirror have something like detached curiosity. Sam lifts a hand and tugs the collar aside, tilting his chin back and eyeing the purpling bruise that had been covered by the shirt. He rubs a massive hand over it, turning his head this way and that like he does when spreading shaving cream. He thumbs over the hickey and his lips tilt up, a smug little smile that doesn't belong on _his_ Sam's face. This is another Sam. The other one.

The realization is enough to get him out and for a moment Dean feels displaced, and unsure of what's happening, except then he's standing in a corner of the bathroom, with Sam in front of him and unaware of his presence there. Sometimes it happens like this.

Dean glances around, takes in the yellowed stains of the tiles in the shower cubicle and the obscenely bright pink towels. Everything is sharp. The scent of bleach and blue soap stick to the back of his throat. Another one of the rooms they'd stayed in before Sam had gotten his soul back. Having figured out that much, Dean feels a little more in control and he's able to relax enough to pay attention again.

Sam turns away from his image in the mirror, looking out the open door of the bathroom but he stays where he is.

Slowly his body slips into a loose boned state, like a lion's shoulders rolling under golden skin, stalking prey on silent paws; attuned to everything around it. Sam tilts his head to the side, as if considering and then he walks into the other room.

Still feeling a little lost as he usually does in this place, Dean follows him.

Sam walks to the little square table in the kitchenette. There's an opened bottle of beer on it and Dean can see the pale glow of light coming from the laptop. On the cupboards, there are pictures and articles, faces of missing people stuck to the cheap plastic of the doors.

On the other side of the room there's the door and the two beds.

On the bed closest to the door, Dean can see himself lying on his stomach. His face is turned towards the window and he's sleeping. The streetlights outside cast a sickly yellow through the glass panes, painting the shape of the window over the sleeping Dean's back. He's got one hand tucked under his pillow and curled around the gun hidden there.

At the time it had been the only way he'd been able to sleep in the same room as _him_.

When he turns his attention back to Sam, Sam's already at the table and he's looking through his bag. Sam looks almost disinterested as he roots around inside it, his other hand by his side.

Dean's not sure he wants to see. It never ends well when he tries to understand. But he feels the tension creeping up as he looks around, trying to place the room, the case. But there have been so many. _Too_ many. He doesn't remember this particular one.

The room is vaguely familiar but then again, he grew up in these places, so that's not really a big clue. And he doesn't remember this.

Sam sits down; he's found whatever he was looking for because he's holding something in his hand.

Dean moves to stand behind Sam.

Sam's got his head tipped down, hair in the way, keeping Dean from catching a glimpse of his expression. On the other side of the room, sleeping Dean lets out a snort. The bed protests as he twists around, his face turning from the windows to the darkness of the room. His hand doesn't move from beneath the pillow.

Sam looks up at the noise too. His face is blank but the eyes are sharp.

Dean frowns, looking from Sam to himself on the bed, a little creeped out by the way Sam just zeroes in on him and stares.

When Sam lifts his hand, his fingers are wrapped firmly around the grip of the small gun, the silver of it winks under the weak light. Sam takes his time, lining his arm up, other hand coming up to support it. He tips his head, eyes following the line of his arm, the trajectory leading straight to Dean's head.

Dean's hands clench at his sides, eyes wide even though he knows nothing will happen. He's still here after all.

Sam thumbs off the safety and his index finger traces the curve of the trigger. All the while the expression on his face doesn't change.

"You son of a bitch..." Dean breathes, frozen in place. He wants to move forward, wants to plant a fist on that expressionless face; beat it to a pulp. He doesn't automatically reject the impulse because it's not Sam. No matter what Sam says now, that isn't— _wasn't_ , Sam.

But then Dean shifts on the bed burrowing down into it with a muffled grunt. Dean watches his other self rub his face against the pillow, sees his shoulder blades tense up a second before they go loose again and he settles.

This happened. And even though he knows Sam didn't go through with it, he can't help the fine threads of anger, silvery and curling around him; the sense, however misplaced, of betrayal.

Sam adjusts his aim, head tilting a bit more. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Bang."

Dean comes to, body tense, hand locked around his gun in an echo of the dream. He's gripping it hard enough that the edge is cutting into his palm. Everything starts to filter back in. The wind is kicking up dirt outside and there's the creak and whine of rusted metal taking a beating from it. He can see, in hues of dark blue, grey and chalk white, the gleam of the floorboards, a slice of the hallway ceiling. Rosemary and long settled dust make him scrunch his nose as he lifts his head off the pillow.

Releasing the gun, Dean rolls onto his back. He rubs a hand over his eyes then stares at the ceiling. He winds down, muscles wired from the dream, relaxing into the lumpy mattress digging into more places than he would like. He can hear Bobby's snores from downstairs. He must've fallen asleep at the desk again.

He only looks at Sam when he's firmly settled in the present. His eyes settle on the broad expanse of Sam's back. The sheets are up to Sam's waist and his t-shirt is riding up, baring the sharp line of his hip bone. The window he's facing is open an inch or so and the wind whistling by tugs at the curtains and messes with Sam's hair.

Dean's lost count of the dreams he's had this month alone. Dreams like the ones he just had.

At least this one hadn't involved flames eating at Sam like a virus, leaving behind dead, blackened skin. But this one hadn't exactly been fuzzy either. Dean can still feel the unease lurking, waiting to spring into something more. But this here is _his_ Sam, now. Not some fucked up shell Hell had hollowed out with a Lucifer spoon before spitting him back out.

But these dreams—at first they'd seemed like nothing. God knows his mind is screwed up enough on its own and doesn't need any encouragement to throw shit at him. But since starting three months ago, they haven’t let up once.

The wind tears by again and this time the curtains blow out, a silent explosion of diaphanous fabric that's slow to come down. The weak night lights from outside passes briefly over Sam and for a second, Dean sees clearly the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw.

Dean stills.

He waits it out and then he hears them; slow, deliberately drawn out breaths.

Sam's awake.

That's been happening after each dream too. Dean wakes up and Sam's awake with him, even if they both pretend he’s not. It bothers Dean more than the dreams themselves because he's sure the possible explanations for it won't be good ones. They never are. Right now, he's okay with not knowing.

Dean lets his own careful breath out, closes his eyes. The unease spreads a little further, a delicate pressure on his chest. He wipes his hand over his mouth, drops it back and looks at his brother once more.

The curtains don't settle back properly. It leaves a cold line of white bisecting Sam's body.

Dean tugs his own covers further up and tries to go back to sleep.

~

"You okay?"

Dean glances up into the mirror, tooth brush still in his mouth. Sam is standing behind him. One of the worst things about these dreams is that afterwards, Dean sees them in everything they do, like their present life echoes everything that happened back then, drawing contrasts and likenesses in thick permanent marker. He stops brushing, leaves the tooth brush buried in the back row of his teeth and turns around to look at Sam. "Wha?" It's all he can manage with his mouth occupied.

Sam's already dressed. His hands are tucked into his pockets and he's standing in the doorway leaning against the frame. There's no trace of the Sam who had pointed a gun at Dean's head in a dream. Instead Sam's eyebrows are drawn down, mouth soft as the corners as he watches Dean. It's the look he gets when he wants Dean to tell him what's wrong but knows better than to push.

Dean turns back around to pull the tooth brush out and spit foam into the sink. "Fine. Why?" He twists the tap, the metal cold against the centre of his palm. He rinses out his mouth, splashes water on his face and scrubs at it with his hands, stubble rasping over skin and leaving the heat of scratches on them. Tugging the towel he'd left on top of the toilet seat, he turns to face Sam again and wipes his face. He looks at him over the worn terry cloth and lifts his eyebrows.

Sam's eyes stay on him as he shifts against the door frame, shoulders hitching up into a shrug before settling back against the door frame. "Nothing, s'just you're not looking too good." He folds his arms across his chest.

“Thanks princess. And you're looking fine yourself." Sam just rolls his eyes at that but doesn't really say anything when Dean walks past him, clapping Sam on the shoulder on his way out. Sam just follows after him.

"So, anything new?"

Sam shakes his head and falls into step with Dean. "Not much. Bobby's headed into town, picking up some supplies, we're running low again. But there's still a whole stack of books for us to go through so... He's gonna stop by the library anyway, see if there's anything else."

"I gotta a feeling this one's gonna bite us in the ass Sammy."

Sam scoffs, mouth tipping up. It's not quite a smile, but there's enough self mockery and amusement there to keep it from being the emotionless smug imitation of a smile Dean spent half a year looking at. The thought brings last night's dream to the forefront and Dean has to force away the way Sam's hand had looked so steady and sure wrapped around his gun.

After each dream occurs, the morning after seems to follow the same pattern. It started after the second dream. Dean had woken up the exact same moment Sam had and Dean was pretty sure Sam hadn't missed that fact.

The same thing has happened with every dream since. They didn't talk about it then—and they've continued not talking about it. Thing is, they've had a lifetime lesson in avoiding and working around issues, it’s been drummed into them, carved into instinctive defense mechanisms. Even with the way their relationship has shifted into something stronger, something that Dean trusts in, it's not a habit that Dean can shake off so easily.

As for Sam, well. Sam's always been braver when it comes to broaching subjects neither of them are all that comfortable with. Excluding, of course, that whole bingeing on a demon’s blood thing. While banging said demon.

"When doesn't it?"

"Good point."

They get downstairs and Dean peeks in at the kitchen. The table there is as bad as Bobby's study, not to mention they've got haphazard notes and newspaper clips, anything remotely related to that Mother of all Pains in the Ass or their current problem, taped over every bare inch of Bobby's kitchen.

Dean stops in front of it, feeling the weight of it settling on him all over again. "I think it's her, man. What else could it be?"

Beside him Sam leans on the table, crossing his arms and studying the wall along with Dean. "Yeah. But no sightings, not anything. We still haven’t been able to get any accounts of what happened from anyone."

Rubbing his hand over his mouth, Dean focuses on a fuzzy black and white picture printed on the thin yellowed newspaper clip. At first glance it just looks like a cloud, a massive grey cloud. But in the past month or so they'd dubbed it the Fog. Not too original, but appropriate—or that's what Sam had said. It'd hit three towns in three different states, mostly staying south. It would come, swallow the town up for about twenty four hours and when it left, it always took a few of the locals with it.

"Here’s what I got: each town experienced high levels of heat unusual for that time of year and against predictions, before the arrival of the fog. I'm talking about off the charts, hot," Sam reaches for the laptop on the table, sounding thoughtful, "and there was one more thing."

Dean opens one of the cupboards, pulls out the coffee. "Yeah?"

"Well, the accident rates spiked, too."

He drops a few spoonfuls of the instant stuff into a mug, already grimacing when he remembers how Bobby's coffee always leaves a nasty tang in his mouth and screws the lid back on. "Our kind of accident?" He turns around and waves the coffee jar at Sam, waits until Sam looks up, giving him a distracted frown before catching on.

"Uh, yeah, please. Thanks."

Sam's already settled down at the table by the time Dean walks over and sets the mug on the table. The chair is tiny and Dean's always a little surprised when it doesn't break under Sam's weight. Sam curls up over the laptop, eyes roaming the page. He murmurs a thanks when Dean sets the coffee down and leans back as he turns the laptop towards Dean. Dean pulls up a chair, kicks up his feet on the chair opposite him and flicks a look over the article Sam is zoomed in on.

"Huh. But no other signs apart from those, right?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. But, I guess we can try to look for this. I mean, we know at the moment it's only hitting the southern states. Texas, Mississippi, Oklahoma. We can just stay with it."

"Guess it's something. Just have to figure out what the hell this thing is." He pushes the laptop back.

Sam rocks the chair back on two legs, feet planted firmly on the floor and hands clasped in his lap. He's staring at the table but not really seeing any of the papers spread over the surface, there's a slight frown on his face. "Problem might be finding a way to deal with it once we get there." He looks at Dean. "Not like we've dealt with a _fog_ before."

"Yeah well at this point I wouldn't be surprised if trees started picking people up and flinging them around."

Sam lets the chair tip forward; the legs hit the floor with a resounding rap. He's looking at Dean with a smile that he's clearly trying to force down. "Dude. Are you referencing Lord of the Rings?"

"What? Shut up." Dean picks up his coffee and gives it another test sip before gulping down mouthfuls. It's a bitter brew and hot enough to fry his taste buds. It’ll wake him up, anyway.

Sam laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head and going back to his laptop. The smile lingers and Dean feels himself relax into his chair. Just for a bit he's able to let go of the apprehension left over from the night before and sit back. They have another long day ahead anyway. But for now he wants to keep this rare feeling of contentment, something that always seems to happen when they're like this, head deep in research with shitty coffee and not much else to brighten their day.

Sam is giving him a sidelong glance and Dean just flips him off before finishing his coffee.

~

The sky is mirrored on the wet road and it’s all Dean can see when he flicks a look in the rear-view mirror. He slides the Impala to a stop in the diner's parking lot, still singing _Fire Your Guns_ under his breath after he turns it off.

It'd been an entire day and they hadn't been able to identify anything else in the left over books by the time Bobby had come back. There were stories, myths; creatures that used fog cover but nothing specific enough for them to work with. They hadn’t come across any omens that took the shape of bad luck, mass accidents, or unpredicted heat waves. So they were left to track it down the way Sam suggested, keeping an eye out for the symptoms. Problem was, that still didn't tell them how to get rid of whatever this was.

Dean's eyes were gritty from the time spent going through book after book. He'd been on his ass so long it'd started to go numb. It'd all made him a little over eager about volunteering to pick up dinner. They'd been taking turns all week after their cooking skills had been put to the test. It had turned out that the only thing they could manage without incapacitating each other with food poisoning, was throwing a steak on the grill. Sam had been the worst of them all. Dean still shudders just thinking about what he'd seen on his plate that day. Turns out, that of the three of them, Dean had been the best cook; but he sure as hell didn't plan on being the designated chef around the house.

The road outside the diner is quiet, few cars passing by. Dean peeks in through the windows of the diner. He's made it before the dinner rush. Which means he's going to get his food a lot faster but the drink he'd been planning on sneaking in down at the bar is going to be kept to just the one.

Sighing, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and makes his way inside.

The bell rings over head as he pushes the door open and the few people inside don't do much else other than throw a glance his way before turning back to their crosswords, newspapers and food.

The waitress who's sitting by the till—Lucy who'd happened to slip him her number on a napkin two days earlier—glances up and the smile blooms over her face, sweet and quick. She's a pretty little thing. Glossy red hair pulled into a ponytail, big blue eyes and a mouth Dean's had more than a few fantasies about since first stepping in here. It's been a while and the blatant appreciation on her face as she rakes her eyes over the length of him, is more than enough to have the slow smile sliding across his face as he makes his way over to her.

"Well hello again," she says, setting aside the magazine she'd been flicking through. When she stands she's almost at his height and Dean let's his eyes trail down the length of her long legs, tries not to be obvious about the long exhale he lets out when he thinks about how good they'd feel wrapped around his waist.

The smile she gives him along with the arched brow shows that she knows where his head's at and doesn't mind all that much.

"Hi," he stops at the counter and looks around, "doesn't look too busy tonight."

She follows his gaze and gives a small shrug. "Sunday night, most of the people who come here during the week get to stay home and relax so it doesn't get real busy at dinner time. What can I get for you?"

Dean slides onto one of the red stools. The pleather is worn and the red's faded into a deep pink. He reaches down the length of the counter to drag over one of the menus. He glances over the laminated piece of card and rattles off his order before setting it back aside and folding his arms over on the counter. He makes himself comfortable as she jots it all down. "Taking it home though."

She flicks a look up at him from under long eyelashes and Jesus the look hits him like a punch. He can easily imagine her on her knees giving him the exact same look while doing something a lot more interesting than jotting down his order. He shifts on his seat as his jeans start to feel a little uncomfortable.

"Work, work, work," she says.

"Something like that."

"Hmm," she turns and walks over to place the order before returning. She leans on the counter too, and even though there's no cleavage to be seen, the worn pale yellow uniform hugs her curves enough to let him know just what he'd been in for. "Know what time you might be done tonight?"

Dean tips his head to the side in a slight shake. "Not sure, could be a while," he sees her smile widen and automatically tacks on, "but I'm sure I could sneak away for a bit. Don't think I'd be missed much." Especially when every time he comes in here he's reminded of how long it's been since he's enjoyed a woman. It's not something he likes to overanalyze.

"Well," she leans forward, close enough that Dean's appreciating a close up of her mouth. It's a touch wide but a full shade of rose, "if you still have that number how about you give it a call?"

"Yeah, I think I'll do that."

"Well alright then." She straightens up and gives him a wink.

Dean leans back when she walks back to the kitchen, the first touch of anticipation hitting him slow, familiar and foreign at the same time. He almost chuckles at himself except that's when he feels the shift.

Its light air filling his lungs, making him want to stop and sit up. It's a feeling close to childlike excitement. And it’s being pushed at him, locking down on him; forcing him to experience it. And with it he gets a glimpse of a wide smile and flashing dimples that make Dean blink to try and get rid of the images.

The feeling leaves him as if it had never been and for a moment, he just feels like someone's attempted to scrape his stomach out.

"—you okay?"

He snaps his head back up and stares at Lucy who's peering down at him with a frown. "Huh?"

Her eyebrows furrow, a small touch of wariness.

"No I'm—"

His phone vibrates in his pocket a second before it rings out. Dean forces a sheepish smile on his face before he tugs it out. He turns away from her and stares at his brother's name flashing on the screen. He picks up the call as the ringtone starts over. "Yeah?"

"Dean, you gotta get over here. We've got it, we pinned it down." Sam talks fast, words almost smashing together with an excitement that's palpable down the line.

Dean sits there, gaze fixed on a spot on the counter. There's a coffee stain there that's been rubbed over with cloths and cleaning spray a few too many times, the brown's paled into yellow and only the outline stands out in an uneven line of brown.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm here Sam."

"Okay. Get over here, I think we're gonna have to move fast on this one."

"Yeah, alright, think you can let me pick up the food first?"

Sam laughs. "You just want your pie. Hurry up or Bobby's gonna kick your ass."

"Right. Just give me twenty."

"'Kay man. Later."

The dial tone beeps into his ear. Dean ends the call. He's still staring at the phone when he realizes Lucy is still standing there, waiting for him to say something.

"Everything okay?"

Dean glances up. When he smiles at her again, it isn't as natural as it was before. "Sorry sweetheart," he says, "don't think I'll be able to make it today. Rain check?"

"Well... sure, but—" whatever else she was going to say is cut off when someone calls out that the orders are ready.

Dean tugs out his wallet and counts out the money. When she reaches the counter and puts the plastic bag on the counter, Dean hands her the money along with another apologetic smile.

As he walks back out, the sky has darkened. The wind is picking up. It tugs at the trees lining the street, strong enough to make the slim trunks curve gently.

He unlocks the car, slides in and shuts the door behind him.

After setting the food aside, he eases into the seat, letting his head rest back and closing his eyes. The smell of the food slowly fills the car.

The car rocks with the push of the wind.

Dean sits up and starts the car.

~

The carrier bag is on the floor and the containers are piled on top of each other, sauce crusting on the corner of the plastic from where the food had been scraped out onto the plates, now stacked in the centre of the table and, surrounded by empty beer bottles.

Dean has his hand wrapped around one and he's spinning it in the tunnel of his fingers, condensation rubbing off on his hand.

Outside, the wind is outright battering the side of the house. He grimaces, making a mental note to go outside and throw a cover over the car before heading up to bed.

"How long before you think it'll hit?"

At his desk and going through a giant tome of a book, Bobby shakes his head. "Haven't figured that out yet."

Sam pushes away from the table and sighs, elbows resting on his knees, hands linking. He shrugs. "We don't know how long it takes for the fog to show after the signs have popped up. A day, maybe three?"

"That's what? Half a day's ride to Knoxville? "

Sam nods. "Yeah. I think maybe we should get in there, try and see if we can find anything. Maybe the origin of the accidents. Stay there during the fog and see what we can do."

"We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. Should give us time to scope the out town before it all goes to hell," Dean mutters, taking another swig from his bottle. He doesn't react when he feels the weight of Sam's stare settle on him again.

If he tries, he can still feel the echo of the push of emotion. He can't let it go, hadn't been able to bury his worries deep enough for looking at later, because something of them must've showed on his face when he'd walked in and come face to face with Sam. The same smile he'd seen inside his head had lit up his brother's face a second before dimming when Dean had taken too long to join in with the good spirits.

But the thought of how it had just slipped into him, easily overriding him and his emotions, had left Dean's skin crawling. Left him feeling the same unease that he woke up with after each of those fucked up dreams.

Because none of them were his. But he was getting them anyway.

"Dean?"

He glances up quickly. "What?"

Bobby frowns at him. "You alright, boy? You been spacin' out all day."

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes and settles for just giving Bobby a short shake of the head. He's heard that question a few too many times lately.

"No, I'm good." He gestures at the map they've got pinned up in the study now, little red pins marking the towns that have already been hit. "So. We get there, scope the place out and hole up. What happens when it swallows the entire town? No connection between anyone taken so far so we're kind of flying blind here."

Sam's looking at Dean though. His eyes stay on him, steady; face blank in a way that makes Dean shift in his chair and stare a little too hard at the map. The sharpness there reminds Dean too much of the other Sam. It makes him wonder if he'd only started seeing that sharpness as calculating once soulless Sam had given him an excuse to. Because if it wasn't his Sam then it was okay— _easier_ —to see it for what it was. Except Sam had always been smart, and soul or no soul, it didn't make a difference.

Which confirmed one thing at least: on some level, it had been Sam.

Dean remembers the gun, remembers the glint of it in the cheap light of the motel, the muzzle trained on his own face. He exhales. The heels of his boots scrape the floor as he lets his legs stretch out in front of him.

When he looks at Sam, Sam doesn't turn away.

Nobody's fooling anyone.

~

That feeling of being in the wrong skin spreads over Dean. He doesn't need a mirror in front of him to confirm what he already knows. He can't see anything. It's like looking into an endless pit. He swallows, panic trickles down his back, insidious.

Something that feels a lot like a warm breath ghosts over his ear— _Sam's_ ear—but he fights down the instinctive shudder, shoves down the need to shoulder whatever's behind him away. He can smell it. He's never smelled it before but inside this reality, inside this Sam, Dean recognizes it because Sam does. Burnt hair. Burnt flesh.

It's behind him.

There's a soft brush against the side of his neck.

Dean turns in Sam's body, the movement pre-meditated, not his own.

He feels his eyes widen, feels the breath clog up his throat.

Its eyelashes are gone, little stubs of spiky hair attached to skin that's melted back and merged into eye sockets. The shape of them is barely recognizable but the slant is there, set into marred skin that looks like it'd tried to drip off of bones but dried like wax before it could. It tugs at his stomach and Dean chokes, feels the bile rise fast. The smell is on him and he thinks that this will never come off, that it's stuck to him. Dean knows that even if it isn't true, it's not going away. He'll never get rid of the image of lips the wrong shade of pink, lines blurred as they stretch too far into cheeks in a grotesque imitation of the Joker.

It's all Dean can see.

It's Sam.

The pain starts slow, cold, on the tips of his fingers. He mistakes it for ice at first but then it registers. It sinks into the nerves of his fingers even as it surges up his arms and he wants to scream, but he doesn't. His teeth cut into his lip to keep it down and again Dean knows it's not him doing it. The smell's no longer just coming from the thing in front of him. Now Dean can smell it coming off of himself, off the body he's in and he wants to step aside the way he did the night before, wants to peel himself from Sam and drag him away, put distance between his Sam and that thing.

But it's on him and he’s feeling it and he can't get away. It feels as if it's corroding the skin and muscle of his neck and he arches, a weak, involuntary attempt to escape. He's rooted to the spot, like he's stepped into pockets of air in the middle of a swamp and it’s sucking him down.

It’s like barbed wires catching on his skin, tearing at it.

The thing lifts its hand; blackened fingers with no nails, just meat. They're steady; disfigured digits reaching up to brush against his eyelashes as if wondering what they are. And then the thumb is pressing flat, right into the inner corner of his eye, pressing and pressing and it's making a rasping noise, lips peeling open and leaving bleeding skin and strings of spit sagging between them.

 _"Nothing but filthy apes, wrapped in human skin. I'll peel it off you. See what you all really look like underneath. What do you think Sam? We have nothing but time."_

And it starts with Sam's eyelids.

Dean comes awake to a pressure on his chest. He jerks in the seat and his elbow slams into the dashboard. "Shit!" He pushes as far back into the seat as he can and wraps a hand around the injured limb, breathing fast and desperate. He's pulling air in so fast it's a wonder he's not choking on it. There's sweat rolling down his neck, sticky where it's drying. His nerve endings are tingling with the phantom pain.

He sits up and takes in the empty driver's seat.

The car's pulled up to the side of the road and he can't see Sam.

He ignores the fine tremble of his fingers as he reaches for the door handle and opens it. He shoves at it with more force than he'd ever consider using on his baby but he’s not really thinking about that. His head is elsewhere and the panic is still there, with it the need to shout as something burns holes through him, but his voice is trapped.

"Sam?" He's hoarse, as if he’s inhaled smoke for too long and it's still locked in his throat.

The sky out here is different, a stretch of fantastic blue with the sun out. The sunlight is watery, bright but still carrying only a touch of warmth in the early morning chill. The cold slides up the sleeves of Dean's jacket, pools in the dip of clavicle, making him hunch down, hiding skin behind the protective lapels of the jacket's collar.

The dirt, pale and grainy, crunches under his boots.

They're on the side of a road and Dean briefly remembers Sam pulling the car over after they'd picked up something to eat, Dean giving in to the need for sleep after finishing his food. Dean speeds up his step.

He stops.

Sitting on the ground and with his back pressing against the side of the car, Sam has his knees drawn up and is resting his head on top of them. His hands are pressed to his head, long boned fingers wrapped around the curve of his scalp. From where he's standing, Dean can see the unnatural speed of the rise and fall of Sam's chest. He hears Sam's rasping breaths and sees the shuddering of his shoulders. The next second Dean is on his knees beside him, hands knocking aside Sam's. This time when the panic starts filling and spreading across his chest, it's completely his own. He grabs Sam's face and tugs.

"Sam." He drops one hand to Sam's shoulder and shakes him, hard. "Sam."

One big hand reaches out. Sam's fingers have a dry smoothness to them as they spread over Dean's cheek that tells Dean they've been pressed to the dirt. He can smell it, dry and earthy; road dust.

"Sam." His voice is quieter now and he hears Sam gulp down another breath, feels another shudder beneath his hand and shifts closer. Fire sears over his knees and Dean draws back, surprised. His jeans are torn and he can see the skin of his knees scratched bloody. He hadn't even felt it. "Come on. Hey. Sammy. C'mon man."

"Yeah." Sam sounds wrecked, like he's just taken a kick to the chest and can't breathe well enough to speak. Sam's other hand comes around and fists the side of Dean's jacket, tugs him closer. He lowers his legs and crowds forward into Dean, wrapping one arm around Dean's shoulder and pulling Dean in. "Dean." It's muffled against Dean's chest and then Sam rubs his cheek against him, pressing his nose to Dean's shirt and breathing him in.

It'd be an interesting view to anyone that happened to drive past right then. Dean doesn't particularly give a shit. He ignores the harsh sting of the cuts on his knees and wraps his arms around Sam. He threads his fingers through the hair at Sam's scalp, let's the heat of Sam soak through and ease the tightness in his chest.

Dean feels Sam shuddering again and curls tighter around him. "Yeah Sammy, I've got you." Sam shifts again and this time Dean feels him press his forehead against the side of Dean's neck, clammy and too warm against Dean's skin. Dean tightens his grip.

Sam's fine. Sam's fine.

It seems that up until now it's all been the calm before the storm.

Now the shit's hit the fan.


	2. Chapter 2

When they pull up outside the motel a couple hours later, Dean has all the windows down. He'd tossed his shirt and jacket in the back seat hours ago. His t-shirt is soaked through and Sam isn't doing much better either.

He's slumped in his seat, head resting on the arm he's got stretched along the length of the window. His eyes are hooded but open.

After Sam had finally eased away from Dean, they'd stayed sitting on the road for a while longer.

Sam's eyes had been a deep shade of blue grey under the ghostlike light of the sun, the flecks of green muted, but there. There'd been lines on his forehead, his eyebrows drawn down and jaw clenched with pain that he couldn't push away. Those eyes had trekked all over Dean's face.

In the quiet of the deserted highway Dean had checked over Sam. He'd come close to lifting a hand, to brushing his fingers over the dark eye lashes. His fingers had actually twitched with the need to do it. He'd wanted to make sure everything was as it should be. But he'd curbed it. Rubbing his hands all over Sam the way he'd wanted to just then would've been more than just a little awkward.

He'd contented himself with a clap on the shoulder before he'd pulled Sam up, grunting under the weight which Sam left Dean to take the brunt of. He'd walked him round to the other side of the car where Sam had just sagged to the side, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

They hadn't talked about it.

He switches off the ignition and rests his head back. Sam doesn't move.

Dean stares ahead at the row of doors in front of them. He can see the little waves of heat in the air, feels it on him, heavy and harsh, like it's attempting to flay the skin from his face. Dean wipes at his face with the back if his hand. It comes away wet and he rubs it off on his jeans.

"I think we should just bunk down today. Take a look at the place tomorrow."

Sam finally unfolds from his corner, dragging his face from his arm. There's sweat dripping from his hair, matting it down against his forehead and nape. A film of it coats his upper lip too, and he wipes at it, tongue coming out to lick over his lips straight afterwards.

Dean finds himself zeroing in like he had by the roadside.

His eyes trail the line of Sam's mouth, confirming to himself that it's the same. It's made up of smooth lines, the groove of his upper lip soft. Right now the corners are pinched, flattening Sam's mouth. But there's none of the blurred lines of ruined skin, stitching mouth and skin together.

He sees those same lips twitch downward and when he looks up, despite the fact that Sam isn't looking at him, he knows the staring is getting uncomfortable. Dean swallows; looks away. "Well?"

Sam shakes his head. He starts tapping his fingers on his knee, leg bouncing a little as if he's itching to get out of the car. "No. We don't know how much time we have. Better to get it over and done with, come back here later. Let's just get a room, put our stuff down and get started."

It's the first thing he's said in hours. His voice is back to normal. But every line of his face is tense and he's not looking at Dean, and it doesn't look like he's going to any time soon, either. Hell, if they never had to do the caring and sharing thing, that'd be fine with him too. Except Dean knows it hadn't just been some random panic attack on the side of the road. Something this bad, it can’t be anything but the wall.

Sam doesn't say anything else, so Dean just takes the silence with a nod. It's not like he's eager to discuss it himself.

"Fine," he tugs out the keys and tosses them at Sam. He has one foot outside when Sam finally turns to look at him.

The hood of the Impala blazes against the skin of Dean's palm when he lays a hand on it and he snatches it back with a hiss. "Motherfucker," he mutters. Shaking it to get rid of the burn, he dips his head to look in at Sam, "get our stuff. I'll get the room."

Sam nods his head and moves to get out. Dean heads for the shadows of the sloping roof that covers the walk lining the flat building.

There's no difference between inside the car and outside. There's no breeze, nothing; the heat the kind that splits the ground and sucks out any moisture, baking dry earth like it's trying to open up cracks in the surface. He doubts the rooms will have any form of air conditioning. The night ahead is looking pretty shitty.

When he gets back with a key, he waves Sam over from where he's sitting in the shade. Their bags are at his side and his legs are stretched out, covered to the knees in the bright yellow of the sun. Sam picks himself up, hoists the bags onto his shoulders and waits for Dean to reach him before falling into step with him.

"So. I was thinking," Sam says.

Dean grunts, passing his thumb over the bumps lining the edge of the key. It sticks to his palm and he wonders if Sam will bitch if he takes first shower. He doesn't particularly want to deal with the bitching right now and decides to take it later. He keeps walking all the way down to door nineteen and looks up at Sam when they stop, waiting for him to continue.

The door's an ugly green, the kind that looks like someone threw up and some genius decided to use it as paint. It's flaking off of the door and the 9 has dropped down into 6. He slots the key in.

"Maybe we could hit the local clinic first. See if we can find anyone who's had one of these random accidents. They might be able to tell us something."

Dean shrugs as he pushes the door open. There isn't much difference in temperature, but it's enough of one that it almost makes up for the spectacular mash up of the pink flowered walls with the retro green, orange and yellow of the kitchenette. When it starts to make him go vaguely cross eyed, Dean drags his attention from the hypnotizing monstrosity and walks over to the TV stand, tossing the keys on it.

Sam goes over to the beds to leave their stuff on the floor between them and turns to face Dean. He pushes his hair back from his face and then drops his hands to his hips. He looks at Dean properly for the first time since Dean got them both off the road earlier. He tries for a smile but it's weak. "Guess at least one of the signs is here," he says before dragging the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead.

It's better than nothing. "Good thing we got beer in the trunk." He gives Sam a little smirk and feels something ease when Sam's face softens, expression a little more relaxed now.

"Alright then." Sam claps his hands together and this time the smile is a little bit more genuine. There's still tension along the bottom line of his mouth, at the corner of his eyes. And like every other time, they have to let it go and deal with it later. "Let's get this done."

Dean checks the gun tucked into the back of his jeans, and tilts his head towards the door.

A few seconds later they're back in baking heat and Dean discovers he hates how it triggers sense memory and shoves second hand memories in his face.

~

For a town that's meant to be undergoing a high accident rate and suffering under a hell of a heat wave, everyone seems too damn cheerful for Dean's liking.

When he and Sam approach the reception desk at the local clinic, the young woman sitting there—a waif thin thing with delicate hands and baby blue eyes—looks up at them and gives them a Barbie doll smile. It's plastic and creepy. Dean almost shrinks back despite the major hot looks on the woman.

He catches a frown on Sam's face too before he masks it after a quick glance at Dean.

"Hi there, can I help you boys?" Sally—the name tag reads—says, and somehow she manages to kick the smile up a notch.

Dean stares at her, feeling a morbid fascination because, really, if she smiles any wider then something's gotta give. Maybe an eye will pop out or something and she'll start twitching like a diabolical robot straight out of the movies.

Nonetheless Dean tries to smile back and not convey how much she's making his skin crawl. "Sure thing Sally, we're with the Knoxville Journal. Just hoping to speak to some locals and get a bit of information."

Sam steps up, his smile a lot more natural, face open, the works. "There's been a rise on accident rates and we're just hoping to pin down the nature of the accidents, maybe see if there's something specific we should be focusing on. Is there anything you can tell us?" He's got the notepad and pen out and everything. "We were hoping to look into the numbers this past week specifically."

She perks up at the mention of the press and her back straightens even more. "Oh, well. Of course, anything I can do to help." Her eyes flick between Dean and Sam, the smile doesn't change and Dean feels his own dying a slow death on his face. He wonders if her face ever gets fixed like that. "We have had a recent rise in accident numbers, but just household things," she says and then to Dean's horror she breaks into a sing song voice, "they do say that most accidents happen in the home!"

At this point, Sam's shoulders start shaking, and he has to resort to biting his lip for a second before he manages to school his expression.

Dean just stares at her. "Yeah. Sure." She flutters her eyelashes at him. _Flutters_. Christ. He decides he can't talk to her without asking if she should be institutionalized and steps back to let Sam take the reins.

Six people had to be moved to the nearest hospital for ICU, seven people with broken bones, one with a severed toe. Three fires, four car crashes and a ladder that fell on someone's head. All in the space of two days.

Dean doesn't even mind the loss of air conditioning when they step outside. They were only able to speak to two of the people who recently came in after accidents, and they hadn't gotten much for their trouble.

No flickering lights, no unnaturally cold rooms, nothing that could be considered even remotely supernatural.

They start down the steps leading down from the entrance. Dean squints under the brightness of the sun bouncing off of car windows. It's raising currents of heat off the ground and Dean can feel them wrapping around his legs.

"You heard her, man. The only unnatural thing about the accidents is the rate they're happening at," he says. The Impala is parked across the street sitting under the shade of a taller building.

"Yeah I know. She didn't even seem to find it weird."

"Sam. The woman was a friggin’ robot. I kinda wanted to tap her face, check there wasn't steel underneath or something." He pulls his keys out, checks the road for oncoming cars—can't be too careful in a town that's an accident magnet. As they cross, the smell of hot tarmac is strong and Dean sniffs at it like an addict. He kind of likes it. "Wouldn't have surprised me," he adds under his breath.

Sam grins. "You gotta admit, that was pretty funny."

"She gave me the creeps, man."

"Anyway," Dean unlocks the car and Sam ducks inside, waits for Dean to follow before continuing, "Let's just make sure we don't become part of those statistics. Think we should lay low until the fog," he looks at Dean and shrugs, "don't think we'll find anything else."

Dean nods and shuts the door. "Yeah. I'm good with that."

And at least for now, he doesn't have to think about the other problem hanging over their heads.

~

Three days and no fog.

Dean tosses down the remote and flops back down on his bed. It's too hot to do anything or even summon the energy to _want_ to do anything.

At the table, Sam's got his phone pressed to his ear. The weather map is open on the laptop. From where Dean is, he can hear Bobby's voice from across the room.

"Yeah. We're keeping our heads down. The accidents are random. There's been another fire since we've been here." He flicks a look at where Dean's lying down, watching him. "As far as we know. Everyone got out okay."

Dean shrugs, and lets his head fall back.

Above them the ceiling fan whirrs, a constant buzz that's become oddly lulling at night. Not that there's been any reason for him to need it. The last two nights he hasn’t had any weird dreams. By the time he wakes, Sam's already up. And sure there's breakfast on the table—despite the fact that they're not supposed to go out on their own—and that's always a good way to start his day. Not to mention that it gives him a little alone time and he can take his time beating off in the shower.

But when he looks closely, the skin under Sam's eyes is looking more delicate, taking on a subtle sheen of brown. He sits at the table checking things out on his laptop and rubs his eyes about a thousand times, trying to keep them open. And sure, in their line of work they're used to shitty sleep patterns. But you take what you can get and don't turn down the opportunity for it when it's there.

Any thoughts about it having to do with the heat went out the window when Dean woke up a little too early and saw the bed perfectly made, Sam's form backlit against the glare of the laptop as he scrolled through a particularly bright page. The TV had been a low murmur of noise accompanying the fan. It’d been four am and pretty clear Sam hadn't even tried to sleep.

"Of course. We'll check in again later. ‘Bye, Bobby."

Dean hears the snap of the phone and the creak of the chair. He looks over at Sam. "Bobby got anything new?"

"Nope." Sam rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. His mouth flattens into a long line. He drops his hand and stares blankly at the screen. "Just the usual. He knows what we know. Heat's getting worse, accident rates going up, but that's about it. Nothing much. Which sucks," he drops his head back and groans, "I thought it would've gotten here by now."

"We knew it could take a couple of days. Besides. It’s not like we're super prepared for this or anything. The longer it takes, the more time we have to find something else on it."

The chair scrapes across the floor, a thin sound that grates and Dean scowls. He glares as Sam crosses over to the fridge tucked into the miniscule space under the counter. Dean's kind of gotten used to the crazy colors and it doesn't hurt as much to look at now.

"While you're up, why don't you order some pizza?" Dean shimmies on the bed, getting more comfortable. "Don't want to go out into that again."

"Where's the number?"

Dean throws out an arm and points vaguely in the right direction. "Table."

"Yeah. With our luck the delivery man will crash on his way over." Sam says, going over to pick up the sticky note with the number on it.

"Hey man, if it happens, you jinxed it."

"Whatever."

"Maybe we should hit a bar later. Hustle some pool or something." As much as lying around is a rare thing to be enjoyed, Dean's bored out of his mind and they're out of beer. If they have to go out to get some more, it wouldn't hurt to stop by a bar for a change of atmosphere. Used to it or not, the pink flowers are still making his head hurt.

Then he feels it.

Just like before.

A wave of frustration that rushes up his throat and forces him to lock his jaw. The hand at his side fists in automatic reaction to the emotion as it slides into him, snaking its way in through the spaces between his ribs. The frustration settles in despite the fact that it doesn't belong there. It's got that foreign feel to it, like a scrap of plastic stuck in his throat.

He freezes on the bed and the fan is suddenly too loud in his ears as he tries to calm the feeling and push it away. Swallowing, he steals a look at Sam. There's a nerve working in Sam's jaw. He's leaning against the counter, a bottle of water in one hand and the other tucked in his pocket. His eyes are trained on the floor but he's not seeing it, his shoulders are one tense line.

Shit. Shit.

This isn't happening.

Dean drops his head back on the pillow, teeth grinding. "Sam."

"Yeah?" The change is instant. The pressure of the emotion sifts away like sand through the cracks of his fingers. And then it's not there anymore. At least not in Dean.

Fuck, but that bar sounds like the best idea ever right now.

"Order the pizza." He sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. "Gonna get us more beer."

Sam looks up, giving Dean his frowny bitch face. "You know we're not supposed to go alone—"

Dean waves it aside and heads to the door. "Yeah, yeah. I'll make sure to call if I run into any bad men, mom."

Sam's retort is dry. "Haha."

Dean flips him off, slips outside, and pulls the door closed behind him.

Outside he leans back against it and lets out a string of curses as he's immediately wrapped in oppressive heat.

~

That night, Dean waits Sam out.

The pizza boxes are piled up and Dean is sitting with his beer by his side, settled on some random channel he's not even paying attention to.

It works. After sending a few subtle glances Dean's way, Sam switches off the laptop and walks over to the bed.

Dean doesn't look away from the TV. "Want me to turn it down?"

For a moment all Sam does is stand by the bed, staring down at it. He shakes his head, distracted. "Nah."

Dean pretends he doesn't hear the click of Sam's throat when he swallows.

"I'm good."

Still with his eyes on the TV, Dean tips the bottle at Sam. "Then sleep well Princess."

There's a pause. Dean takes a gulp of the beer, the sound loud. It's not that the room goes silent all of a sudden. It's that there's a heightened awareness of it.

"Dean."

"What?" He finally turns away from the TV. He smiles wide. "Need me to sing you to sleep or something?"

The colors from the TV drift over one side of Sam's face, little people shadows dancing across the flat plane of Sam's cheek and sending the rest of the dips and angles of his face into shadow. He's got his hands resting on his hips and after a while, he drops his head. His hair falls down; covering his expression and Dean only gets another headshake. "Jackass." It's said with a hint of warmth, enough to curb the insult before Sam sits down on the edge of the bed and tugs off his boots. There's a thud, then another. Sam scoots into the middle of the bed and rolls onto his back.

Dean sees the slow, careful breath Sam pulls in before he closes his eyes. His shoulders relax and his hands unclench.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam's breaths even out and he twists in the bed, moves onto his stomach. His face turned towards Dean. His mouth tightens briefly as he slips his hands up and under his pillow, before slackening again.

Dean scoots lower down in his own bed and turns back to the TV.

He finishes his beer, draws in a tired breath and gets up. The night time ritual of a life time has him salting up doors and windows, securing everything just in case.

When he's done he goes back to his own bed. He sends a hopeful look up at the fan and prays that tonight isn't the night it gives up on them—it's been threatening to lately—and flops face down onto the bed.

The TV stays on.

Dean falls asleep to the sight of washed out white playing over Sam's face.

~

There's no confusion this time. He pushes a motel door open. It has a rusted number 3 on it. This door is beige and there's a crude carving of a deranged-looking smiley face on the top corner of it. The hand that pushes is it open is Sam's but Dean can feel the cool surface of the wood under his palm. The scratch of flaking paint rasps at the pads of his fingers.

Behind him another car pulls into the parking lot, briefly lighting a slice of the door. It adds a sudden splash of bright color that slides off as Sam steps through, taking them into the room. He closes the door quietly behind him, shutting out the light from outside.

In the darkness, the scent of sex clinging to him is more pronounced, as if without a visual the remaining senses strive to pick up everything else. Dean can feel the clamminess of his skin, sweat that hasn't quite dried off. It makes him wonder if the girl Sam was with is only a few doors down from their own room.

Sam stops a few feet from the door and Dean feels his eyes narrow on the empty beds. One is still neatly made and the other is rumpled, the covers flipped back.

He hears the sound of a toilet flushing. The door tucked into the far right corner of the room opens and Dean fills the doorway.

The bathroom is still lit up inside and makes it hard to see the other Dean's expression. His eyes—Sam's eyes—adjust quickly though and he catches the momentary freeze of the other Dean's expression before he snorts. "You're not even trying to act normal anymore are you?"

Dean vaguely remembers this night. It's hard. There'd been quite a few times he'd woken up during those months and Sam just hadn't been there. But this one, he knows, was the day they'd gone hunting for a particular coven taking out 'family men'. He remembers it because he fucking hates witches and it had been the first hunt of a quiet month. Sam had left straight after they were done and had only gotten back in the middle of the night. Dean remembers that crystal clear too, because he'd woken up fresh out of a dream of his Sam, clawing at burning walls with bloody nails, screaming for Dean.

Sam lifts his shoulders, calm. Dean can feel that too. The void of nothing. It's like a smooth current undisturbed by anyone or anything. There are just thoughts in his head, pros and cons, statistics, probabilities and mostly, just a need to keep everything working to his best advantage. "Think it's pretty obvious that it won't help if I do. Last time it just pissed you off more."

It's weird, opening his mouth and forming the words, hearing Sam's voice come out, tone flawless and matter of fact. Weirder even, when the conversation is with himself.

He watches as his other self grunts and crosses to the kitchenette.

Sam walks over to the bed but his eyes don't leave Dean's back. He keeps watching Dean. The cold light spills over Dean's bare feet. He's in boxers and a t-shirt.

Sam stops at the bed and shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it on the bed. There's something there that hadn't been there when they'd walked into the room. At first Dean isn't sure what it is, he's just alert, detached. He's wondering if Sam is about to pull another gun on him while his back is turned. Sam doesn't. Sam just watches.

A little too closely.

"So. Was she hot?" Dean opens the fridge, leaning down to peer into it. The t-shirt gapes open and Sam's eyes fix on the glimpse of firm muscle underneath. It takes Dean a second to sort through the shift in Sam. It's not emotion, it's something else. But as the other Dean slides a hand under the t-shirt and scratches at his stomach, Dean figures it out. It's like a hot hand opening over his abdomen, waves of warmth spreading out like fingers stretching across skin.

"You want a beer?" Dean's voice is accompanied by the pop and fizz of the bottle. He straightens; bottle already tipped up and pressed to his lips. He can see the beer slosh, the light from the bathroom hitting the bottle and leaving a yellowed glow at the centre of the green. Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam, still drinking and arcs an eyebrow to emphasize the question. There's a second where Sam's gaze zeroes in. Dean's lips are damp from the beer, plump against the hard push of the glass and Dean wants to turn his head away, wants to get out of this skin, wants to stop the slow twist of arousal spreading through Sam.

When there isn't a response from Sam, Dean shrugs and shuts the fridge. "Suit yourself. And go take a shower or something. I can smell you from over here." Then he stops paying attention to Sam and walks over to his bed, scooting back until his back is pressed to the headboard and flicks on the TV.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean glances up, looks a bit wary when Sam moves to stand by his bed. He pulls the bottle away, licks his mouth. "What?"

Sam snatches the bottle out of Dean's hand, glass slippery in his grasp.

Dean rears up. " _Dude—_ "

But he goes silent when Sam puts the bottle to his lips. The mouth of the bottle is warm and slick from Dean. Sam slides his tongue over the edges as the bitter brew fills his mouth and there's the clench of want as he keeps his eyes on Dean, who, oblivious to it all, is scowling at Sam again.

Sam feels a touch of dissatisfaction, like this isn't enough of what he wants. But he just eyes the bottle, giving it an unimpressed look. There's a thrill there, purely physical, at the way the warmth of Dean's mouth lingers against the soft skin inner skin of Sam's lips.

He hands it back to Dean and turns around, tugging his shirt off as he heads to the bathroom. Dean can no longer see the expression on the face of his other self. Sam drops the shirt to the floor.

"You should've left them in the fridge longer," Sam says, "tastes like shit lukewarm." He’s closing the door behind him as Dean's voice slips through, a quiet mumble.

"Screw you, I, Robot."

Sam doesn't say anything, just shuts the door. Dean really wants to be gone from this fucking nightmare. The arousal is right there in his gut and Dean is feeling it.

Sam lets out a little hum under his breath. He leans back against the door, slow and relaxed, cat like. His eyes slip closed and Dean can't see anything, just the muted brightness of the bathroom lights through the thin skin of Sam's eyelids.

Sam's hand slips down, methodical, doesn't pause. He unbuttons his jeans and slips the zipper down.

Dean's ready to start beating at walls to get out because, _fuck_ no.

Sam slips his hand between denim and skin and now Dean knows how stupidly fucking smooth and hard Sam's stomach feels against his calloused fingers. His dick is heavy, pushing at the restriction of his jeans. Sam reaches down and Dean shudders with him against the door when Sam's thumb brushes against the slit of his dick.

And this time when he slams a fist against the memory, he finds his face pressed into the mattress.

There's a spring poking him in the cheek. He's awake. There's a queasy feeling in his stomach, like the first time he saw a dead body carved up. It's like someone's shoved as much food in him as possible, put a blind fold on him, spun him round and round until he dropped to his knees and puked all over the place.

Dean turns onto his back, reaching up a hand to rub at his eyes and fills his lungs with the stale air of the shitty room. He wishes, for once, that they'd lucked out on something better just so he could breathe something _clean_ in and wash out the feeling of sick pooling in his stomach and the way it's spreading outward in slow trickles.

Then he notices the silence.

There's the fan, spinning and spinning, barely stirring the air enough for it to reach Dean. The TV screen is nothing but a rush of dots writhing on the screen to white noise.

There are no sounds from Sam's bed. There's just an utter stillness that makes Dean slow his own breathing. He slips his hand away from his face so he can turn his head and look over at the other bed.

He feels the yank in his chest, comes close to jumping out of the bed when he finds Sam's eyes open and locked on him. He can't make out color, just the glow from the TV hitting the long line of Sam's neck and jaw, turning dark skin white.

After that first instance of stark surprise, the slam of his heart trying to tear itself out from the wrap of bone and muscle, Dean shoves the tangle of sheets to his feet. The bed groans under the violent move as he gets up. Sam closes his eyes, turns his face further into the pillow.

He doesn't speak, doesn't move and Dean doesn't look back as he walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind him.

There's bile, acidic and bitter in his throat. It hadn't been his hands but he could still feel the heat of Sam's stomach, the softer, hotter skin and firmness of someone else's—Sam's—cock imprinted on the palm of his hand. It makes his breath hitch, makes his gag reflex protest. He can feel the tug of muscles there, trying to reject that threat.

He goes to the sink, leans low over it, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to keep it down.

Bur he remembers the warmth his own mouth had left on the bottle and the curl of satisfaction in the pit of Sam's stomach.

Three seconds later he's on his knees by the toilet, spilling out his dinner.

On the other side of the door, he knows Sam is awake.

~

When he wakes up, Sam's bed is empty. It takes a few seconds for him to register the sound of the shower and as soon as he does, it stops.

The TV is off. Sam's bed is made, scratchy, stained orange blankets tugged up and neat, better than how the housekeeper had left it before they'd gotten the room. The white sheet—turned beige over time—is folded neatly over the orange cover. Even the pillow looked fluffed.

Dean stares from where he's sitting, weight resting back on his elbows. It comforts him a little. The other Sam hadn't given a shit about something as simple as making a bed. He would've just left it. It was something that wasn't necessary. And that Sam had never bothered with anything that wasn't necessary him.

So it's a friggin’ _bed_ , which makes it easier to look his brother in the face when Sam opens the door to the bathroom and steps out. He's dressed and running his hands over his hair. He looks keyed up. When he looks up and finds Dean looking at him, the stiffness gets worse and his steps falter. He recovers quickly enough though, that Dean almost misses it. Then he visibly relaxes and nods at Dean.

"We getting breakfast?" Sam tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, thumbs out and tapping a rhythm against his thighs.

Dean looks away and scrubs at his mouth. Then he pushes himself out of bed. "Yeah. Yeah. You use up all the hot water?"

"There should be some left."

Dean grunts and makes his way over on bare feet. He's already lifting his head to scratch at his stomach when the déjà-vu comes over him and right on its heels the punch in the gut memory of what exactly he'd experienced. His hand stops mid action. His jaw clenches and he turns his face away, hand firmly by his side. The tension in the room ratchets up another notch when Sam catches the aborted gesture and doesn't look away.

Dean swallows. "Cool. We'll catch up with Bobby over breakfast. Give me ten."

And when he walks past Sam, Sam isn't looking at him anymore either.

~

"Well, I found something. Not sure how you boys are gonna feel about it."

"Yeah, we figured it wouldn't be pretty. What do you got?"

"Nebulae."

Dean glances up from the article on a guy who'd had his head smashed into pulp by a car landing on him while he'd been working under it. The grimace is still on his face. Sam is on his way back to the table. The small coffee and the box of doughnuts he's holding are tilting dangerously but Sam holds them a little higher to avoid knocking into people as he weaves his way through tables full of people.

The majority of people are hanging around outside, girls in skimpy tops sitting under the sun as they drink ice coffees and guys eyeing up the goods on display without even trying to be subtle about it.

Seeing him looking, Sam nods at the phone in silent question. He reaches the table, puts their things down and slips onto one of the stools across from Dean.

"Nebulae?" Dean repeats, as much for his own benefit as Sam's. "Isn't that Latin for mist or something?" He reaches for his coffee. Sam nods again, agreeing with Dean's observation instead.

"Or fog," Bobby says. "Found it in Colt's journal. It's written in the original language so it took me some time to translate it. Says here it's some kind of bird type. Was a real good little soldier back in the days when the Mother was walking around."

Sam's focused on his coffee, stirring in the sugar but leaning in, lips scrunched a little in concentration as he tries to pick up what Bobby's saying. He seems to hear enough though because at that, he glances at Dean, eyebrows drawn up. It says: _so we were right._

"So it _is_ her then," Dean says, wanting to know for sure.

"Looks like."

"So what does it do? How come it’s up and snatching people, carrying them off to god knows where?"

"Doesn't say what they're for, exactly, but they're definitely for the Mother."

"Huh." He picks at the lid of his coffee. Wisps of steam rise from the pitch black coffee. They twist together before evaporating. "Does it say what she does with them? Where it takes them?"

"Nope. Haven't come across anything like that yet. It does say here that the thing likes holing up in places with large natural water reserves, has a thing for 'em."

"Alright," Dean takes a drink from the coffee and the bitter brew scalds his tongue. "Sam and I will take a look, see if we can find anything in the area before the fog hits. Anything on how to gank this son of a bitch?"

"I'll keep on diggin' but I ain't found nothing on that yet, either."

"Yeah. Okay." He sinks back into his seat. "Thanks Bobby."

"You boys keep me posted."

"Yeah, you too." He clicks off, puts his phone away, then reaches for one of the fat doughnuts. The flowery sugar coats his fingers when he takes one. At least the place has some kind of air conditioning inside, even if it does seem to be kind of hit and miss.

"So what did Bobby say?" Sam asks. His own coffee is already half gone. He's got a funny look on his face, forehead wrinkling as he takes in the crowd outside.

Dean shrugs, bites into the doughnut, almost goes a little cross eyed at how good it is, and speaks through dough rolling around in his mouth. "There was something about it in Colt's journal."

"Does it say how to stop it?"

"Nope. Bobby's still working that out." He washes the doughnut down, makes himself look at Sam. "Says they like to pick people out for the Mother though. And they like to bunk down around places with large natural water reserves, something like that. Guess we have some places to check out." He flicks a look up at the window where he can see a slice of hot blue sky. "We don't know how much longer we have before that thing gets here and then we won't be able to find jack."

Sam's already nodding. "Yeah. Got an older map of the town. It's got some places on it that were locked down and don't show up on the new one. We should take a look at that too, memorize it. We'll need to know our way around if the fog is really as bad as they say."

Dean sets his coffee cup down. "Alright. Where we starting?"

Sam drags his bag up and tugs out a long tube of paper. He rolls the red elastic band down until it snaps off and nudges a few things away from the center of the table, then spreads out a section of the map.

He taps two fingers against the East part of town where it's edged by a cluster of trees stretching out quite a bit further. It almost separates the town from the city. "There won't be any inside the town but there might be some streams around here. Think it might settle for that?"

"Worth a look."

Sam nods. "We can probably cover it before night hits."

"Alright." Dean drains the rest of his coffee. He feels Sam watching. He ignores the dream lurking around the edges of his mind, trying to push to the forefront like it has all day. "Let's split, you take one end, I take the other and we meet back at the motel."

When Sam doesn't say anything, Dean looks up. "Sam?" He raps his knuckles on the table. "Come on man, let's go. Time's a-wastin' here."

"Yeah," Sam shakes his head, "yeah. Okay." But his mouth is tight around the edges and as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder, his eyes slide off of Dean like water on oil. And then as he slips past Dean, despite the tight space between the other tables and them, he manages not to brush against Dean at all.

And even with the awkward discomfort of finding out what exactly his brother had done while soulless, that small avoidance still stings a little more than all the shit he's been seeing put together.

Dean stops grinding his teeth—didn't realize he was doing it to begin with—and tries to ease the tension rising in his shoulders. He follows Sam out.

~

There's not much of a trail to follow.

Dean's standing at the edge of the stream. His shirt is clinging to his back, his face slick with sweat from hiking all the way up. His jacket's already wrapped around his waist. Above him the sky has already started changing, the blue bleeding into orange and red, helping the trees cast bigger shadows where they tower over him. He's been walking along the stream for at least an hour and in this heat, he's starting to feel it. He's hating himself a little for having left the water Sam had bought in the car.

He looks around again and sighs, decides to take a second and drops down to his knees, wincing when the hard dirt doesn't soften the impact. But he gets over it and reaches down, dipping his hand into the stream. The water ripples over his hands. It's crystal clear and swirls at the tips of his fingers like points of ice before swallowing his hands to the wrist.

He splashes it on his face, all the while still looking around, trying to spot anything that shouldn't be there. But they've got little to go on as is and this feels more like a waste of time than anything else.

The cool only lasts the time it takes him to wipe the water from his eyes before he's back to feeling like his head's stuck in an oven.

He's pulling his wet fingers through his hair when he sees it.

He straightens up, frowning, and walks a bit further down, making his way to an old looking trunk. There are tons of leaves scattered at the base, brittle and yellowed. They crunch under his feet as he stops in front of it.

"Huh." Grooves in sets of four are carved all along the length of the tree. They're deep enough that they cut through several layers of bark. He steps back and looks up. It's one of the bigger trees, but there's nothing special about it. Yet the same marks go all the way up, even on the thicker, sturdier branches. There are whole chunks of leaves missing from them.

He's brushing a thumb over the ragged edges of the cuts when it hits him. As always, there's no prep. But this time—this time it doesn't pull him into one of Sam's memories. It comes to him instead.

He turns his head and it's there. He can glimpse it, a black shape hovering just on the edge of his periphery. And he can smell it. It's familiar now—that burnt smell that means a disfigured and broken Sam, the one in Sam's head. Dean swallows in reflex. His hand freezes against the bark and he stands as still as possible even though he knows for sure this time, it's definitely not real. At least not to him.

The panic, cold and sour, hits him next.

Dean braces one hand on the tree as the pain—Sam's—starts, fusing with the heat around him to plaster itself along the sweat slicked skin of his arms.

He shoves his other hand down, digging around his pocket for his phone. He blinks fast to keep the water from dripping into his eyes and trying to push the artificial sensations down. He focuses on the screen, scrolls through names and finds Sam.

He dials and waits. He glances up. It's gotten darker. Did Sam make it back to the motel?

He remembers Sam sitting on the side of the road, barely holding it together and at the mercy of whatever was inside his own head. What if that's what’s happening now? And if Sam is still in the woods—

Dean grits his teeth. The phone continues to ring. "Come on Sam."

It keeps going, but Sam doesn't pick up and there's only the beat of the dial tone as he retraces his steps in his head and plans his way back. There's a swell of desperation that's not his, and it's getting bigger, spreading as the pain starts, licking its way up his very bones with blistering tongues.

" _You have reached—_ "

Dean jerks the phone away, ends the call and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

He turns away from his findings and sets out, walking fast.

"You better be there Sam."

~

Getting back to the motel takes him less time than getting into the woods. The sun is gone and there's a thick blanket of clouds, heavy and almost indistinguishable from the sky itself.

He's got his keys out. His back is drenched, t-shirt sticking along his spine. He's still dialing Sam as he opens the door and he hears the familiar ring of Sam's phone inside the room. The relief is almost crippling.

Despite the curtains being open, the room is just one huge shadow. There aren't any lights on and the TV is off too.

Dean swallows, eyes taking apart every corner of the room. Sam's phone is vibrating on the table at intervals. The screen blinks out in neon color, piercing the dark with eerie blue. The initial relief Dean felt at hearing the phone, fades.

Reaching back, he shuts the door and the sound is too loud. His nerves are still dancing with a phantom pain. It had gotten worse on his way back to the motel. At least the frigging thing that had been dogging his every step had disappeared.

"Sam?"

He moves into the room, steps echoing. He looks at their beds. They're empty and Sam's not in the kitchenette either so Dean turns to the bathroom. The beat of his heart is thick in his throat, like it's trying to squeeze up and choke him.

"Sa—"

Sam's there. He's standing in front of the sink. His hands are at his sides, his eyes are open and on the mirror. Dean can't see his face well enough to see his expression.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/atanih88/pic/0002cq5z/)

"Sam." This time when Dean says Sam's name, it's a murmur.

It doesn't make much of a difference, because Sam doesn't so much as blink.

The cold unfurls, slow and deliberate. Dean can hear his own blood pounding in his ears. "Sam." He repeats and this time reaches for him, locks his hand around a solid shoulder and pulls, making enough space for him to slide in between Sam and the sink.

Dean can see Sam's face now. His eyes are blown wide, the ring of color around the iris, muted to granite in the darkness. They don't drop to focus on Dean's face like he’d hoped. They stay vacant instead, focused on some non-existent spot over Dean's head.

"Come on, man." He slaps his hands on Sam's cheeks, grips so tight he knows it'll leave marks on Sam's skin. "Don't do this again. Fuck. _Sam!_ " He's barking the name out now. In his head, coherency is barely making it past the first tendrils of desperation, and he's counting back the time that has passed since he realized something wasn't right. It’s been at least an hour.

Sam's been like this for an hour.

Dean's mouth is dry and when he opens it again nothing comes out. Because Sam's trapped in there and Dean can't reach in and bring him out. It's the only explanation for this—that wall.

Dean gives up on talking. He yanks Sam's head down onto his shoulder, wraps an arm around Sam's neck and the other around Sam's waist. When Sam's balance goes, Sam doesn't do a thing to stop himself from falling forward. It's as if he's not present at all. Dean adjusts his grip as Sam's entire weight falls against him, crushes him against the sink, and anchors him there at the waist.

"Jesus," he hisses the word, resting his head on Sam's shoulder, his own eyes screwed shut. He can smell sweat and somewhere underneath that, the sweet clean smell of soap and _Sam_. He can still feel the pin points of pain, prickling up and down his back but it's not as intense anymore. He palms the back of Sam's neck. "Sam—not now, man. Snap out of it." He almost swallows it down—age-old instinct—but it comes out, gruff and forced through a throat that feels raw and cracked from thirst and emotions he doesn't own. Emotions he does. "Please."

He can hear soft, too-short breaths, can feel the fall of Sam's chest, quick and small like a panicked animal. Dean slides one hand up, presses it to the centre of Sam's back. It's hot and the t-shirt is wet under his hand.

They stay like that in the dark; Sam draped over him, heart a panicked beat that he can't express and Dean can't do anything about.

Dean takes a breath, steadies himself. He tightens his arms around his brother and turns to make sure he hears exactly what he says. His mouth brushes over the clammy skin just beneath Sam's ear.

"S'okay, Sammy."

Sam shudders. Dean pulls his arm from around Sam's neck, tips Sam's head back, careful when it comes close to lolling back. Sam's hair slips through his fingers, damp and catching on the webs of his fingers. His eyes are still spaced out but he blinks once, heavy and slow.

"Sam?"

Sam lifts his hand. It slaps down, clumsy and fumbling on the edge of the sink. His fingers curve tight around it.

Sam blinks again, sluggish. "Yeah Dean, m'here." His voice is hoarse, the words coming slow. After a moment, he glances down at Dean. Sam stumbles back, only stays up because Dean grabs for his arms and steadies him.

Sam seems to rouse himself enough to help, bracing himself with the hand he has on the sink. "Dean."

Dean rubs his eyes, moves his hand to Sam's shoulder. "Yeah, Sam." He'd made it back out again. He's gripping Sam tighter, breathing deeper to get the smell of him in, proving to himself that Sam is okay. Right now Sam is still okay. Question is how long they're going to last playing at this game.

Under his hand, Sam shakes. A weak chuckle leaves him. When Dean looks up Sam's isn't looking at him anymore. His gaze is fixed in the space between them; his mouth is pressed into a flat line. Dean can see the sheen of sweat on his face, can feel how hot Sam is. He's got a fever building up and Dean the heat of it clings to Dean's hand through the t-shirt.

"Dean," Sam says again, fainter this time and he sways, his face lined with exhaustion.

"Come on. Let's get you to bed." Dean pushes away from the sink, keeps a strong grip on Sam and leads them both out of the bathroom.

It's no longer something they can keep on overlooking and Dean knows they need to act fast here. Or the next time, Sam may not come back to him at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean's sitting on the edge of his bed, on the other bed Sam is passed out.

Earlier he'd pushed away from Dean and stumbled to the other bed—hadn't even paused to take anything off, just face-planted on it. He'd slipped into sleep without the slightest token of resistance. It'd probably been system overload if Sam had gone through even half the pain Dean had felt earlier. And Dean has a good idea that what Sam experienced was ten times worse.

It fits the pattern. Dean just went through another echo of what Sam did. And he has no idea what to do with it because it doesn't make any fucking sense.

He stares at Sam. If he tries hard enough he can see each individual eyelash resting against Sam's cheek bones. When Sam was younger, Dean's attention had been drawn to them. There's something innocent about them and back then they'd always made him want to wrap Sam up tighter, work harder to keep him safe.

Sam grunts; mouth twisting in a brief grimace. Dean's eyes flick down to it. Sam shifts on the bed, eyebrows scrunching together before his expression eases once more and he settles again on a soft exhale.

Dean stands up and rounds Sam's bed. He heads over to the fridge. The cold light spills onto the floor when he opens it and he reaches in and grabs two bottles before shutting it again.

He looks at Sam, double checking to make sure that he's sleeping easy before slipping out of the room. He closes the door behind him and steps into dirt dry air. Only the chirping of crickets studs the thick layer of silence. He sits down on the walk outside and sets one of them beside him and stretches out his legs. He twists the cap off the one still in his hand and drinks, staring absently at the flies dancing around a street light.

When he pulls the bottle away, it's half empty.

He grips it with both hands and lets his head drop forward, eyes on the space between his feet.

"Hey Cas. I know you're, uh, a little busy up there but, um," no matter how many times he does this, he always feels like a crazy person just talking to himself, "if you could come down for a bit, I'd really appreciate it, man."

He lifts his head and looks around, taking in the empty parking lot, the Impala a gleaming machine just a few feet away from him. The crickets start to fade into the background and he glances back down, wonders if this is one of those times when even Castiel won't be able to help. He hadn't been able to before, not with Sam's soul or the wall in his head. With their luck, chances are Cas won’t be able to do much this time either.

A small breeze feathers over his face, and he blinks his eyes faster as the dirt kicks up a little. The sound of a thousand fluttering wings overtakes the sounds of the crickets for a split second and then there are two feet in his line of vision. They don't stay still for long. They walk around Dean to his other side.

Castiel sits down in one neat move, his body folding as the trench coat flares out on the floorboards and spills onto the dirty ground. He rests his hands atop his knees and looks at Dean.

As always, Dean feels a little too exposed under the steady gaze but he's learned to bear its weight. Because now it's just Cas.

He picks up the second beer and holds it out.

Castiel looks from Dean to the bottle then back to Dean again. "You call me down here to offer me alcohol. Do I have to once again explain that it is imperative that we win this—"

"War. Yes. I get it Cas. _We_ get it." He nudges Castiel's knee with the beer and rolls his eyes when Cas' hand finally closes around the neck of the bottle.

Cas stares at it for a while before reluctantly reaching for the cap and popping it off.

Dean shakes his head, unable to keep a small hint of a smile from showing. He goes back to staring at his baby and takes another drink from his beer, listens to Castiel doing the same.

"Are you going to tell me why I am here?"

Dean glances over at the closed door of his and Sam's room, then at Castiel. He lifts his bottle again.

Castiel frowns. "Sam."

"He's asleep."

"Yes. I know. I'm assuming that isn't why you've called me either."

Dean sighs, leans forward to set his bottle between his feet. It looks like it only has about two mouthfuls left. "Hey, Cas."

"Yes."

"I think Sam's wall is breaking. I mean. I knew, you know? That it was gonna happen but. I think this is it."

Castiel sighs and sets his bottle aside as well. "I'm sorry Dean."

"Walked in on him just standing in the dark and staring at nothing. I think he'd been that way for an hour at least, before I got there."

"I thought Sam was unable to judge the amount of time he lost according to the last time there was an... incident."

Dean's mouth tilts up, nothing genuine in the bitter line of the smile on his face. "Yeah, well. Sam probably can't."

"If you were with him, you could have called me earlier Dean. I wouldn't have ignored your call."

"I know that. I wasn't with him."

"I don't understand."

Dean picks up his bottle again, finishes it off. Castiel watches, a solid presence beside him. Dean draws his legs up and braces his arms on them. "I sure as hell hope you'll know a bit more about this than I do."

"The wall?"

"No," he drags his hand down his face. "I've been having these—these dreams. They're not mine. I mean, I don't get how this is happening, but." He laughs. "I think they're Sam's. I keep seeing these things, Cas. Some of them, they remind me of when I was—doesn't matter. Jesus Christ, Cas," he ignores the flinch, "in one of them, fucking _Lucifer_ was peeling Sam's eyelids off like." He stops, clasps his hands together, clenches hard until the skin under his fingers goes white. "And there are others. Of himself. When he was wandering around soulless." He can't look at Cas then, reliving the picture of Sam toying around with the idea of shooting him. Then that other dream. It's all a little too fresh for him. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not making them up."

Castiel is silent for a moment. "Sam is also having these dreams."

"Think so. I mean sometimes I'll wake up and he'll be coming out of it right with me."

"I see."

Dean snorts. "I don't." He stands up, dusts his hands on his thighs and walks a little further out. He tips his head back, traces the few pale lines that stand out in the night, outlining clouds here and there. "Today, when he took a trip down memory lane? I felt that, Cas."

"You felt it."

"I wasn't anywhere near him." He throws his hands up, feeling at a loss all over again. "But man, I _knew_. And it's not the first time either. It maybe started when the dreams did. I don't know. But sometimes, it's like I'm getting these—these," he shies away from the word 'feelings', "vibes. And they're not mine. Feels like someone put some mojo on me and they're pushing all this shit on me. It's gotta be related, right?"".

"This... is unexpected."

"Yeah, you can say that again."

Cas blinks up at him. "This is unexpected."

Dean stares at him. "What?"

Castiel sighs and stands up. "I see why you called for me. And you have reason to be worried." He glances at the closed door to their room. "It seems that the wall has deteriorated faster than we assumed it would."

"But Sam hasn't been scratching!"

"I don't think that it is as simple as that. I think that once one push is given, then the deterioration begins."

"But he's been fine. We've been hunting things and working our asses off, and he hasn't—"

"I think that what you have just told me is evidence enough that Sam has not been fine. This was always going to be a temporary solution, Dean. You know this."

Dean turns away, cursing under his breath. He stops in front of the Impala, leans his hands on it, letting the warmth of the hood soak into his hands. "Okay. So now what?"

"It sounds as if Sam is already doing something."

Dean looks at him over his shoulder. Castiel is still standing by the door to their room, hands by his side with that familiar tilt to his head. "What?"

"It's rare but not unheard of. When a soul feels threatened enough it will sometimes attempt to reach out, ground itself to another that is familiar, one that means safety. It's particularly rare because not many souls have that kind of potential. When they do reach out, the person is usually unaware of what is happening. It can make the process dangerous."

"Process."

Castiel sighs, glancing away before walking over to stand in front of Dean. "When a soul does this, it's almost as if it is synching with another."

Dean recoils. "What? Like soul mates? Dude. No."

"The soul mate theory is flawed. At least the impression that humans have of it. No two souls are the same therefore they cannot have twin souls. That is not what this is."

Dean sits back on the hood, tries to make sense of what Castiel is saying. "So you're saying, because the wall is breaking, Sam's reaching out and grounding himself by—by—what exactly?" He shakes his head, frustrated. "How does that even work?"

"As I said. It's a synching. It would explain why you share his dreams, experience his memories. When they occur, Sam is at his most vulnerable and reaches out. He is using you as a way to anchor himself, to keep himself from breaking under the pressure of the memories."

Dean is silent.

"You were not near him when he went into a catatonic state today. It could be that this has progressed far enough that in your presence Sam is able to resist the pull of the memories simply by reaching out to you. In your absence, it leaves an imbalance and he is vulnerable to the full effects of his memories."

"Every time." He grinds out.

"I don't understand."

Dean laughs, shakes his head again. "Every time I think we're doing alright? Something else comes around to bite us in the ass."

"Dean."

He looks up, finds Castiel giving him a stern look. "What?"

"Sam _is_ fighting. By the looks of it, it's working."

"He doesn't even realize he's doing this."

"Does that matter?"

Dean looks at him. He thinks of Sam standing alone in a shitty bathroom in some dead end motel, trapped inside his own head. He thinks of the fucked up mess of Sam without a soul, wandering around in both their heads, of Lucifer taking his brother apart piece by piece, Michael helping along from the sidelines. No. It doesn't matter at all.

"Guess not." Really, this is a no brainer. If this keeps Sam whole and sane, then Dean can take it.

"But Dean. There is a reason why this is so rare."

Dean shrugs and scoots back, crossing his arms. The car bobs under his weight. "Figured there'd be a catch. Always is."

Castiel's mouth tightens and his back straightens almost imperceptibly, like when he's preparing to give a lecture or clarify something which he doesn't think Dean and Sam are understanding fully. "There's a possibility that as the link becomes stronger, there's as much chance of Sam dragging you down with him as there is of you keeping him whole. The link won't remain at the same level. It will develop, grow. Some people can't take the intensity of the shared space. It does not always strengthen a relationship."

"What are you saying? That we'd get sick of each other or something?"

"I'm saying that it could force you apart at the least. Drive you insane at the worst. If that happens then Sam won't have enough of a defense to hold back the pressure of the memories behind the wall."

"So turn one way we're screwed. Turn the other and we're screwed on a stick." He pushes himself off the car and heads for Castiel's abandoned beer. He stoops to pick it up, fingers stiff. His jaw feels locked shut and it takes some effort to loosen up enough to open his mouth and take a drink. He’s pretty sure Cas isn't gonna finish it.

"Guess we'll just have to make sure this works."

"Dean."

He looks at Cas.

"I do believe that if anyone is capable of pulling this off, it would be you and Sam."

Dean feels his chest clench at the words, any belief, no matter how little or how futile it might seem, is a small push that tells him he can keep on doing this.

He tilts Cas' beer towards him in a small toast. "I'll drink to that."

~

He doesn't worry about dreams when he gets back to the room.

He gets into bed and falls asleep on top of the covers, clothes and all, facing Sam. He watches his brother sleeping, safe and anchored.

And Dean knows he'll freak out about this later—probably rely on more than a shot of whiskey or two to help him through processing it all, he knows this. But for now, he finds himself falling asleep to the knowledge that he's there and if anything happens, Sam will latch onto him and Dean will know, will be able to keep Sam in the land of the sane with him.

For now, Sam is okay.

~

Dean does dream. A different Sam is running the tip of a handgun in a line down the pillow Dean's head rests on. He dreams that that Sam leans in close and breathes Dean in. He feels that slow curl of warmth and _want_ slip into his blood as his own scent floods him.

It's short this time and Dean comes awake to a warm hand covering his shoulder, shaking him from a blissfully black sleep. What he sees is Sam's back as he quickly turns away.

Dean scrubs the sleep from his face with a grumble and attempts to climb up the bed with one elbow.

Sam's already working his way around the room, picking up his jacket and shrugging it on. "Fog's here. We have to get moving."

The sleep clears up quick and Dean's on his feet the next second. "D'you call Bobby?"

Sam shakes his head. He's at the table, fitting new batteries into the flashlights. When he's done, he sets them aside and reaches for the gun, tucks it away and reaches for the stake next."Everything's down, I've already tried."

"Well, ain't that just peachy." He makes a quick trip to the bathroom, takes a leak and then washes his face so fast it can barely be considered clean. He goes back into the room to get suited up. "We got nothing, man."

Sam glances at him. Dean reaches the table and picks up the other flashlight. He checks the magazine on his gun and, satisfied, puts it away too. He moves over to the windows and jerks back the curtains to get a look outside. His eyes widen as he takes it all in and lets out a low whistle. All he can see is a wall of dense white. He can't even see the Impala. He looks over at Sam. "This should be fun."

Sam finishes getting ready and looks out at the mist too. "Yeah, I'm guessing even if we’d known how to track this thing, we might not have been able to. Not in this."

Yeah. Now that he can see it, Dean doesn't think it would have made much of a difference either. "At least we have an idea of where it might be. I found some marks yesterday—think that could be it. Looks like the creature was trying to cut the damn tree in half."

"Yeah. Saw something like that too but then." Sam stops. Dean sees the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

Dean lets the curtain fall and leans back against the wall. "About that," he scuffs the toe of his boots across the floor, frowns, "I know we're a little short on time right now but uh. I think this is something we might need to have a talk about. You know."

Sam's shoulders ease back. "You mean, talk about what Cas said."

Dean's not very surprised. A little, sure. Sam had been out for the count both when he'd left and when he'd come back in. Obviously not. "Yeah. About what Cas said."

Sam nods. He palms the short iron bar he'd picked up. "You could've said something before."

Dean shifts his position, crosses one foot over the other and resettles against the window sill. "Could say the same thing to you. All those times," he forces himself to go on, past the lump of discomfort climbing up his throat, "you were awake too."

"No. I didn't know."

"Bullshit."

"No. Dean. I didn't know. Sure, I knew _something_ was happening, but. I swear I didn't know what I was actually doing. I would never—"

Dean waves it away. "Forget it man, we don't have time for this right now."

"Dean—"

"Sam. Let's get this done. We can talk about this after."

Sam just looks at Dean, giving Dean this outright pathetic look that makes Dean want to groan and tell him to quit that shit because no matter how many times he's seen this song and dance, it always ends the same way.

Why does he even bother resisting?

He sighs. "Look man. I know you wouldn't—wouldn't _do_ that. That's not what I'm saying. And it's not like I'm throwing blame around. It happened, it's done. Doesn't seem to be something we can change so, let's just... work this case. Find what we need to find. _Then_ we can talk about this."

Apparently, it’s the right thing to say, and Sam draws himself back up to his full height. He gives Dean a tight nod. "Okay. Yeah." He gestures to the door, movement forced, underlining the new fill of awkward in the room. "Then I guess we should..."

They finish getting ready in silence. It's not uncomfortable but it's not great either. Not knowing what exactly they're gonna find outside isn't helping things much.

~

In some ways, the fog is worse than walking around in pitch black: they know all about the things that come out of there.

This, this is nothing but void space. White and thick, it blocks everything from sight, swallows up the balls of light from their flashlights until there's nothing to lead the way. When Dean stretches his hand in front of him, he can barely see the tips of his fingers.

They walk shoulder to shoulder, Sam a solid press along the length of Dean's arm.

Sam's jaw is clenched tight, his eyes flicking back and forth, in tune to every little noise around them And Dean is just as keyed up. Except there's nothing.

They'd stepped out of the motel room, traced the line of the Impala with Dean's hand on her roof and they'd continued on, making their way through the map they'd pored over until it was fixed in their minds. It'd been a productive, if boring as hell way of spending their time waiting for the fog.

Dean hears the drag of what could be a newspaper pushed along by a gentle breeze but the wall of silence is as thick as the mist surrounding them.

Dean looks at Sam, struggles a little to make out his brother's face. "A little too quiet don't you think?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, people should be panicking or something, right?"

"I don't know, man."

They keep a good pace considering the fact that they can't see jack shit in front of them. It's good camouflage at least. Everything is eerily still, the mist sinuous. It wraps around everything as they move, only giving them small glimpses of things Dean's not sure are really there.

They keep step with each other, one eye on the road beneath their feet, only seeing obstacles when they're close enough to step on them.

That's when they hear it; glass. Like a big store window being smashed to pieces and then screams pierce through the white nothing. Its instinctive, the one glance they share of split second agreement before they take off running in its direction. Their flashlights are useless and Dean fits his hand to his gun, feels the way his fingers flex around it and immediately, despite the lack of visuals, he feels steadier, more in command of the situation.

It’s not long before they lose themselves to the fog.

"Sam!" He just needs the audio. He can hear Sam's running steps beating the pavement, has a split second to realize there's a low bar separating the road from the pavement and jumps over it, foot just shy of catching on it.

Sam's voice booms out at him. "Yeah. I'm good, keep going!"

The scream spears the air again and Dean hears the sound of glass crunching under something.

Dean curses under his breath because fuck, he can't see _shit_. And then he's stepping on glass shards, can hear lower sounds, almost like mewling. He slows down and they morph into crying; short, stifled sobs as if people are trying to keep as quiet as possible.

He does a mental check of the town layout, thinks back on what’s closest to them that has major glass structures. There’s a little restaurant here, with a whole wall of glass. He remembers walking past it on their second night and seeing a measly portion on someone's plate, looking away in disgust and pity for the money the poor bastards had dropped in the place.

Dean slows his movements, steps careful and quiet. He's got his gun ready and aimed, he listens, the frightened sobs are the only things he hears.

He takes a deep breath. "Everyone okay in here?" His voice is greeted with gasps and scrapes of chairs, there's the quiet slide of cloth on wood and he can't help the flinch when plates and cutlery crash to the floor, sparking another burst of small screams. "Hey. _Hey._ I need everyone to calm down." He still can't see shit. "Is anyone hurt?"

The smell of hot food lingers in the air and in the back of his mind a detached voice reminds him that they didn't get to have breakfast.

The toe of his boot bumps into another rise on the floor, the bottom of it scraping over the sharp edge of glass, and when he glances down he can make out the glint of jagged glass, can see the sleek black marble that makes up the frame of the windows to the restaurant.

"A—a lady, sh-she—something this _thing_ —" the woman's voice, raspy, probably from crying and screaming, chokes up and can't manage more than that. The sobs start up again and he has to tell himself that yelling won't get him anywhere right now. The fog is thinner inside, though it must have swept in when the glass broke, but if he squints he can make out bulky shapes, huddled up along what could be the walls. They're hunched down, clustered together on the ground.

"Has anyone else been taken?"

"J-just her. We think just her."

"Good. Then everyone stay down, do _not_ leave the building until the fog is gone, unless you wanna be someone’s meal. Got that?"

There's a chorus of terrified gasps and he gets an impression of people shuffling closer together. He turns and steps back out. Clearly they're late to the party.

"Sam?"

The sound of the people crying in the restaurant stays at his back but as he faces the street, the same silence that they'd walked into after they left their motel is all that's left.

"Sam."

He couldn't have disappeared so fast, not without Dean at least hearing something. He makes to reach for his phone before he realizes that there's no reception.

There's another crunch of glass under his foot and Dean stops. When he moves forward he pays attention, feeling the glass rolling under the sole of his boot, getting a feel for the direction that the glass has fallen in. When he glances down he can make out the glitter of glass, but no more than that. It's like trying to spot a trail of crystals in sand.

He needs something—

"Dean!"

Sam's voice echoes in the empty street. Dean jerks his head up. "Sam?"

A blast of wind nearly bowls him over. It's strong and it pushes at the fog, spinning it into a whirlwind as Dean forces his eyes to stay open against the onslaught. His eyes well up from the lash of the wind. He tries to blink away the pressure but it doesn’t work. The screams from inside the restaurant get louder, competing with the roar in his ears.

Except it's not in his ears, not when he glimpses—just a little too late—the black span of a wing, velvet-like and huge, and the thin yawn of a fleshy mouth as the damn thing dives for him. He has no time to duck and backs up fast, is lucky when his foot catches on one of the bars that he'd stepped over before. His back hits the floor and his head cracks against it too. There's a line of fire on his cheek but he can't coordinate fast enough. His body feels too heavy just then.

A gunshot rings out but all it does is make him squeeze his eyes shut. His head is spinning, everything around him magnified, stuffing itself into his head. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and grits his teeth, willing the dizziness to move the fuck on because he needs to get his ass back up.

"Dean?"

He groans and rolls onto his side, hand going to the back of his head gingerly. But there's no break or blood. He pushes himself up, cursing when glass cuts into his hand, hurting like a mother fucker. He settles back on his knees and dusts his hand on his jeans; he knows he'll be picking glass out afterwards.

"Dean!"

"Yeah Sam."

"Can you see it?"

He glances up, still can't see anything. "No. It knocked me on my ass when it flew at me." He feels a familiar sticky wetness sliding down his cheek and when he touches it, the cut stings. He jerks his hand away just as fast.

Before Sam can answer though, Dean feels the wind slap against his face and throws up an arm as dust flies into his face, the sound of it is deafening. "Sam, it's coming back!" He hunches down, tucks his head in and clicks off the safety. He grips the gun with both hands and tries to spot the same velvet black that had come at him just a minute ago.

It sounds like its flying higher up and he tips his head back, trying to get a look at it.

"Can you see it now?" Sam asks and Dean can tell that he's closer.

"No. You?"

There's a big crash, the sound of something heavy hitting a car. Dean hears it, a rasped grunt just under the sound of the wings. Before he thinks better of it he's moving towards the sound, small but quick steps, ready to shoot the first freaky looking thing that gets in his face because he's pretty sure it just put its fucking claws on Sam.

"Sam!"

Double shots ring out. Then everything goes quiet.

Dean doesn't hesitate, just keeps right on moving through the mass of white, passing the huge shadowed shapes of the buildings and cars as he goes.

Then an SUV comes within eyesight. There's a massive dent in its roof. The windshield is cracked six ways to Sunday and there's a deeper hole on the hood, like someone’s been using it as a mattress. Someone that weighs about as much as a vending machine.

Lying right in the middle of it is Sam. He's sitting up, back curved like he's trying to curl in on himself.

Around them the mist is thinning, Dean's already catching glimpses of other damaged cars and buildings but he doesn't stop until he reaches the car. Sam's already scooting to the edge of the hood swearing under his breath as he drops down.

Dean puts the gun away and he grabs for Sam, locking one hand around his arm as he surveys the rest of the area, trying to get a glimpse of the creature.

"It's gone Dean," Sam groans. He's got his hand over a wound and its stained berry red. The color is vivid after the blank wall of white they'd been subjected to since stepping out of the motel. The blood is already soaking a path down to Sam's elbow. There are four tears on Sam's shoulder, one of the middle ones deeper than the others. He remembers the shredded tree bark, how deep each slice had been and he can't quite tamp down the nauseous relief that washes through him.

He shrugs out of his jacket, dropping it to the floor and unbuttoning his shirt. He tugs an edge of it up to his mouth sets his teeth on it and tears as big a strip off of it as he can.

Sam leans back against the car, head resting on it, teeth clenched hard together as he breathes harshly through his nose.

"Did you see the woman?" Dean asks, nodding his head in the general direction of the restaurant. He pulls Sam's hand away from the wound and Sam lets him, hissing as the pressure comes off.

It's a long cut, deep too and just another inch or so to the right, it would have cut right through Sam's throat. Dean's eyes flick over the length of it, needing visual evidence to confirm that there's no gaping wound there even though he’s already sure of it. He curbs the need to touch too and starts wrapping the cuts tight.

"No. No woman. It's pretty fast Dean."

"Tell me about it." His head is still feeling the little kiss it'd shared with the pavement.

"I think I got it."

Dean finishes tying the knot, mutters an apology when Sam winces and gives him a pained look. "When you shot at it?"

Sam nods and then his eyes land on the floor somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "Hey, Dean."

Dean follows Sam's gaze and through the clearing mist he sees what Sam is looking at. Black splotches dot the road in sporadic patterns. A little bread crumb trail.

But now that the mist is clearing Dean can hear the far away murmur of voices and when he looks back at where the restaurant is, he can see heads beginning to poke around the broken glass, trying to see if the coast is clear.

"Yeah. But we can't stay here right now. Let's get back before this clears completely and someone gets a good look at us. We'll patch you up and follow it when it quiets down."

Sam grimaces again even as he nods. He takes a deep breath before pushing himself upright.

"What about the girl?"

Dean looks at Sam. The blood has soaked down to the edge of his sleeve now. Thick drops fall and seep into Sam's jeans.

Dean drags Sam's arm around his shoulder, making sure to take a good deal of Sam's weight, thinks to himself that he's been carrying Sam around a little too much this week.

He doesn't answer and Sam doesn't say anything.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam is sitting on his bed. It’s not looking so neat anymore. The coverlet is fisted in his hand, the skin over his knuckles tight from the pain. His eyes are fixed on the wall behind Dean. There's a bottle of whiskey on the floor, about a third of it left, and his skin is covered in little beads of sweat, they pepper the lines of his shoulders as Dean works on the wound with practiced care.

The cut is deep and it's going to be sore and itchy while the skin and tissue knit back together. Three other cuts bracket the deepest one in the middle; smaller but still vicious. They stand out, raised pink on the smooth planes of Sam's skin.

Dean's own wounds consist of a bump on the head, some bruises on his back and a nasty scratch on his face. He feels kind of like a pussy and like his pride has taken a kicking, but he's grateful for the minimum pain inflicted. They couldn't both be bad off or they wouldn't stand a chance of going after the thing.

He's concentrating hard on the stitches. The thin needle is slippery in his fingers as he pushes it into Sam and it ends up jabbing into him instead. Sam jerks away and sends him a filthy glare.

"Dean! Watch it!"

Dean arcs a brow at him. "Easy there, Samantha. You'll live." And he pulls the last stitch through. "You think it's gone back to the woods?"

Sam tries to look down at the closed wound as Dean steps back and sifts through the rest of their supplies, trying to find the gauze. "It's wounded, hopefully it'll be looking to go to ground and we'll be able to track it.

Dean nods. "No news from Bobby?"

Sam shakes his head. "We're just gonna have to go with what we got."

"Yeah, we better get it too, police reported three people missing, and that's including the woman from the restaurant."

He unwinds a length of gauze, nudges Sam with it. Sam sighs, shoulders slumping as he eyes the gauze, but he stretches his arm out. It's stiff and trembling lightly from the effort of holding it up against the pain.

Carefully, Dean starts to wind it round, starting with Sam's shoulder and working his way up to where the bigger cut slices over the curve from shoulder to neck.

He doesn't notice until he's halfway done, that Sam is looking up at him. When he does, he shifts on his feet, checks that he's wrapping tight enough. "What?"

Sam shrugs his good shoulder, glances down.

Dean looks at the exposed curve of Sam's neck, the traces of blood here and there that he hadn't wiped away properly. The roof of his mouth feels dry when he lifts a quick hand, rubs at one a few inches beneath Sam's ear. The action brings with it the unexpected memory of Sam's own hand, fingers long and slow as they travelled down his stomach. Dean stops and his hand hovers over Sam's skin, not touching. He swallows, wets his lips and gives one violent shake of his head, like he's trying to get the image out. But, no such luck.

When Sam answers, Dean snaps out of it and gets back to the task at hand.

"Nothing," Sam says, "I was just thinking."

"Yeah well, staring at me while you're _thinking_ is a little on the creepy side, Sam. Stare at the wall or something."

"Dean. What Cas said—" if Sam feels the way Dean's fingers fumble the wrapping he doesn't show it, just continues on, "that's no joke."

Dean's mouth tightens. "Did you hear me laughing?"

"The dreams. Do you think you've seen every one, the same way I have?"

Dean's eyes skip to Sam's face, hands stilling completely this time. "What do you think?"

"I think you have, yeah."

"So. Why are we having this conversation?"

"Because, Dean." Sam blows out a frustrated breath and pushes his hair back from his face.

Sam's arm is warm under Dean's hand. "It's not like I haven't seen Hell before Sam." The warmth lingers on the back of his fingers, on the mound of his palm. Dean dusts his hand over the leg of his jeans.

"Strangely enough, those aren't the ones I'm worried about."

Dean looks away and finishes wrapping his arm.

~

The blood spoor takes them past the tree Dean had seen the previous day and follows the stream.

Sam keeps up the pace with a look of concentration on his face as they start downhill. His movements are stiff, his left shoulder tense, and he's holding his arm tightly to his side, minimizing movement.

There isn't much talking either. The conversation back at the motel hangs over both their heads and it's enough to leave them in taut silence. It's another testament to how things have already changed between them, how things had been different anyway, before this. Before, Dean would've brushed it off. He would've focused on anything but their issues and now he can’t. Now, that way of dealing with things isn’t something that works for them anymore. He still isn’t sure if this is better or worse.

"Dean," Sam reaches out, laying his hand on Dean's shoulder to stop him.

"What?"

They're on one side of a little river that the stream feeds into. Over on the other side of it stands an abandoned warehouse.

"That's in the old map," Sam says. "I didn't think—I thought it'd been taken down."

It's set on dry desert land, just a few weeds here and there. The building itself is decayed; a skeletal frame erected on a piece of neglected ground. Not even the sunlight starting to peek through softens it. It looks like a shell, peeled back and tossed aside, windows now jagged points of broken glass for eyes. Black and red are the only splashes of color, scrawled in crude graffiti. The river in front of it doesn't do much for the view either. Unlike the stream spilling into it, its water is slow and pale brown, the smell of it a stomach turning sewage sweet. It looks like it’s abandoned. And it's compact enough to be hidden by the trees lining the edge of the woods.

"Alright then, let's go."

There's an old-looking bridge, a small thing that crosses low over the river and is just about wide enough for a car to fit on. The only noise Dean hears is the sound of their steps; the further they get into the woods the quieter everything becomes. Anything that lives in it is staying well hidden. By the time they reach the bridge, there’s nothing but the light whisper of leaves accompanying them.

If nothing else it's a pretty sure sign that they're on the right track.

They follow the trail to where it stops just outside the double doors. Dean looks at Sam and gets a nod from him before stepping up and pushing at the worn door. It squeaks on rusted hinges as it swings open easily under his hand. Nobody had even bothered to lock the place down from the looks of it.

Dean pokes his head in and the first thing he notices is how cold it is inside. It's a stark contrast to the temperature outside and Dean feels the cold lap at the sweat on his face. His eyes are smarting from the lack of light and he can't make out much, just vague shapes in the dark. He pulls back out and eases the door closed again.

They take a second outside to make sure the coast is clear and get ready. This time they're better armed, iron shots and blades strapped on. It's their best bet against anything coming from that bitch. Worst case scenario, Dean thinks, they strap the thing down and burn down the building. Wouldn't be the first time.

This time Sam follows him inside. The square of light from outside cuts into the dark , falling right on Dean's back as he motions for Sam to follow.

A rhythmic ripple of plastic is coming from the windows. Black bin bags have been taped over the gaping holes and they billow in as the dry breeze washes over them from outside; they keep the light out. Around them the place is alive with groans of debilitated wood, the building settling around them, old and creaking, ready to give up and collapse with the right incentive.

Dean closes the door behind him. When it shuts, it seals them in, the noise of the river cutting off and leaving just the sound of disturbed plastic and dead silence. The machines are huge steel contraptions covered in fluffy layers of dust. Dean can taste the sharp smell of metal and age against the roof of his mouth. At his side Sam is frowning at the space around them, rubbing at his nose viciously with the heel of his hand. Dean can sympathize, feels the itch in his nose from the dust floating around. The flashlight shines white on the walls, highlighting cracked wood and dented metal, picking out the stairs leading up to the next floor.

He looks at Sam a few feet behind him. Sam's sweeping the floor with the flashlight and the little ball of light bounces from floor, to work space, to the thick, see-through plastic hanging over the first floor like curtains. He nudges Sam, motions to the lone staircase at the very end of a row of work stations. Sam nods and steps towards the stairs, leaving Dean to cover the ground floor.

He listens to Sam's steps on the old metal steps and swings his own light to catch sight of Sam's feet disappearing from view as he reaches the top, before getting his gun in hand and turning back to the job at hand.

He moves fast, knows Sam is going to be done quickly too. Ever since coming back, Sam's been sharper, even after getting his soul back. Sometimes when Dean looks, he sees it, the speed with which he catalogues everything and dissects it. It's probably a lingering habit from a year of being there and not being there at all. Dean thinks that after a time it just became an instinct carved into the mind, soul or no soul.

Dean checks out the entire right wing in less than a minute. There are none of the claw marks he'd seen before, not even a spot of blood to mark the path the nebulae might have taken. It's like the thing up and disappeared outside the doors of the place.

He moves onto the other side, following another line of stations, making his way around broken, knocked down chairs. He steps over them and keeps walking until he reaches the wall at the end of the row.

He stares at it and turns to head back, ready to go up and help Sam finish the upstairs when he spots the door. It's at the end of a small cleared path to his right, tucked into a corner beneath the overhanging balcony of the first floor.

There's a hole where the door handle should be and the door is slightly ajar. Dean aims his flashlight at it. Carved onto the door are four grooves, short but deep, cut into the wood with splinters spiking up around them. The same marks are on the frame above the door, the bottom points of those looking like the claws had stabbed deep, as if something had hung there, a massive weight suspended above the ground.

Dean flicks a look over his shoulder and takes in the shapes of the work stations, the hulking machines. When he sees nothing else, he takes more care, stepping lightly as he makes his way over to the door. He reaches out his flashlight hand, and the light slips up, sliding from the door frame to fix carelessly on the ceiling as Dean catches at the edge of the door with the tips of his fingers.

The door comes open slowly, the hinges resistant. But Dean doesn't get to look inside. Behind him there's a sound like nails dragging across concrete and he stops. His eyes dart to the side, his awareness of everything around him spreading out like a net.

Dean releases the door and, trying not to make any sudden moves, he turns.

The only warning he gets is a glimpse of yellow teeth as the thing snaps at his face.

He dodges to the side, elbow smacking into the door frame and the pain rings up his arm, setting deep into bone. "Fuck." He ducks behind one of the work stations as it charges again. " _Sam!_ "

The wings unfurl, webbed and velvet blue, like a bat's wings. Their span is huge and they block Dean's view of everything behind it.

Its form is vaguely human but like the wings, its fingers and feet are webbed, same as the space between its arms and ribs, where a thin membrane stretches and relaxes with every flex of wings. Its neck is long, three rings of small horns marking the length of it, making the skin look ribbed. It jack-knife's forward with the precision of a cobra.

It sweeps into the place where Dean was just standing, talons scratching at the floor as its wings block escape routes. Its eyes are a pearly white with no pupil but they're trained on Dean's face and he's pretty sure it can see him just fine. Black slime, same as what had come out of his ear after their first encounter with Eve's newer creations has dried around three bullet holes. It has one on its shoulder, another on its upper right arm and one more, right above its collar bone. Which meant that bullets wouldn't work.

It beats its wings, the sound thunderous in the enclosed space and Dean has to resist the urge to slam his hands up to his ears to keep it from deafening him—and dodges again as it makes another attempt to rip out his face.

Every time its neck stretches forward to a freaky length, its wings rear back, keeping the door blocked at every turn. It's either trying to keep Dean from escaping or, it could be trying to keep something in. Something like prey.

In his current position though, Dean doesn’t have enough space or leverage to take a proper shot and he can't reach for his dagger. Either action would leave him open long enough for it to get a good chunk of his throat. And if he loses the flashlight then he's probably dead too. There's no doubt in his mind that this thing sees better in the dark than he does.

And where the hell is Sam? _Now would be the time to get your ass over here, Sam,_ he thinks. And he knows Sam's probably heard the commotion already but for something that likes hunting in zero visibility, it'll probably be able to sniff Sam out as soon as he gets close enough.

It dives forward again. Dean jumps back. His back slams into a work station table. The edge cuts into his lower back and he can't back up fast enough to avoid the scrape of fangs over the back of his hand. He drops the flashlight just as one of them threatens to sink in nice and deep between his knuckles. The light travels with the flashlight as it rolls under the table. The Nebulae smashes into the table as Dean hitches himself onto it, a frustrated animal wanting to pin down its prey, long past the point of patience. It's not planning on taking Dean anywhere if it gets its claws in him.

It screeches, a nails on blackboard sound from deep in its throat.

Dean cocks the gun. His sight is dotted with lilac spots exploding like fireworks in the sudden dark but his hearing is just fine. He takes aim and lets off one shot.

The loud bang reverberates off the walls and if Sam didn’t hear anything before, he sure as hell heard that. Or the ear splitting screech that follows it. And although he hit the damn thing, it hasn't gone down. Shooting it had pretty much the same effect as poking at a snake with a stick.

The nebulae's wings snap back as it rears up. Dean shoves one hand into his jacket, wraps sweating fingers around the hilt of the dagger but it’s above him, has him locked down and all he can do is try to move up the table.

Its jaws snap at him as its wings beat at the air. He gets a whiff of its breath, sweet smelling rot pouring into his space and he's forced to take it in. The table trembles under their combined weight but he keeps on moving back, squinting at the dark shapes around him as they start to rearrange themselves into the sets of machinery and paths he'd seen earlier.

A thin tongue snaps out of its mouth as it splits open from ear to ear, like a wide smile that reminds Dean a little too much of a hyena about to get its meal. All Dean has at his back is a wreck of machinery which he'd rather not fall on. He'd doesn’t want to be the guy who trips on his own feet and falls to his death by landing on a saw. That'd be pathetic.

When Dean goes to drop down and duck out of the way, its serpentine neck moves with him. It guns straight for his throat.

It's hot breath sears over Dean's skin and it rips a line of fire down his throat. And then it's staggering back, the long neck snapping wildly to the side as its wings beat loudly and its body arcs back. Dean slaps a hand to his throat as the blood starts seeping and draws in lungfuls of the dusty air. He sees the gleam of iron, a long line of it poking out through the cavity between its ribs. He registers Sam's grunt and watches as more of the blade pushes through.

It's wriggling on the iron, trying to pull itself off of it and Dean can hear Sam grunt again as he struggles to keep it in place. Dean tugs out his own dagger, swallows and steadies himself for a second.

With a quick, strong flex of his arm, the sharpened iron cuts down. It slices through the first two rings of horns on its neck, through flesh and muscle.

The head stays in place, but the screech dies off. The body stills and a few seconds later, topples over.

Sam is standing there, looking down at it. He's chest is heaving one hand clutching his own wounds. Dean lowers the dagger he's still holding up and slumps back against the machinery.

The dark, sludge-like crap that is caked around the bullet wounds is also smeared over Sam's face, some of it dripping down his chin. For a split second, Dean goes through one hell of a mind trip—sees a soulless Sam in front of him and he closes his eyes to shut off the image. To shut off the dark stir that tries to make room for itself in his belly.

Shit. He doesn't need this now.

Dean leans his head back against the cold rusting metal, tries to focus on their next step. "The door. We need to check that room," he gets the words out between heaving breaths.

Sam's looking at him weird, eyes narrowed on Dean's face and his jaw tight and Dean's not sure what that's about. It's not pain and it's not panic because the look is too clear, too assessing to be either. Then Sam's wiping at the stuff on his face, his sleeve pulled over his hand and glances over his shoulder at the door Dean had been at when the nebulae attacked. He stops to jerk out the dagger still poking through the thing's chest and makes his way to the door.

Dean takes a deep breath. Then he jumps down from the table and follows his brother.

~

It takes them another two hours of just searching the area around the warehouse, but they find nothing. There's not a single trace of the missing people.

Dean's tired. The entire week is finally taking a toll on him and the warped silence that carries them back to their motel room isn't helping. Since getting in the car Sam hasn't said one word to Dean. He's barely even looked in Dean's direction.

At the moment, with the collar of his t-shirt soaked with blood, muscles sore and limbs weighted down, Dean can't bring himself to care. What he really wants is a hot shower, a beer and the shitty motel bed. He's had enough excitement for the time being.

Sam is out of the car before him, doesn't even wait for Dean to cut the engine and Dean's okay with that too. He follows at a slower pace, takes his time opening the car door and steps out, feeling every inch his age as he makes his way over to where Sam is already walking into the room.

When he gets in, Sam hasn't moved away from the entrance yet.

Dean shuts the door and moves past him, ignoring his cuts and bruises in favor of getting his hand on a cool beer. He doesn't really care what order the whole shower-beer-bed combo comes in.

"I heard you."

Dean, who was already happily making his way to the fridge, stops. "Heard me what?"

Sam rubs a hand over his forehead, thumb pressing in hard at his temple. There are small splotches of red coming through his shirt where Dean patched him up earlier. The stitches are probably torn. With the force Sam must've been using to keep the nebulae in place, that doesn't surprise him. "In the warehouse, Dean. I heard you."

Dean wonders if the slam dunk into the SUV earlier and the tussle with the nebulae have left Sam with some kind of permanent damage. "Yeah, genius. That was the point. Why else would I be calling out your name when I've got a monster ready to rip me new one?"

"Not when you called out for me. I heard you in my _head_ , Dean. Like a thought. I heard your voice, in my head."

Dean blinks at him for a moment. Then he scoffs, turns away. He really needs that beer. "Man, we've just had the shittiest day, gotten the shit kicked out of us by some freak thing, and you wanna do this now?" He pops off the cap and drinks. When he feels he's gotten enough down he leans forward until his head is pressed to one of the cupboards. He ignores the newspaper clippings stuck to it and just lets himself rest for a moment.

"Look, Dean. I know you're shifty with this kind of thing, believe me, I do. But—come on. We can't not talk about this. I heard you in my _head_ , man."

He's tired. He's really tired. "I'm not saying to ignore it Sam. I'm saying that we need a break. Let's just catch our breath here before we run full on into the next problem."

"Yeah? Okay so, let's do that. And when we both wake up in the middle of the night after a memory of me snapping some woman's neck, or tossing another kid at Samuel for him to torture, we'll just get up and move on."

"Sam." Dean sets the beer down and lets out a weary sigh.

"Or what if it's not one of those? What if it's another snippet of Hell, Dean. We gonna wake up and move on from that too?"

" _Sam_ ," Dean grits out.

"Or. What about if it's one of the others."

Dean feels tension, pouring down like cement, oppressive, fixing him in place. His back stiffens instantly and he turns his head to cut a warning glare at Sam.

Sam's moved further into the room, just a few feet away from Dean now. His face looks white washed, probably from the pain of having to use his wounded shoulder when the injury is still so fresh. But his eyes are locked on Dean, his focus complete.

"What if it's one of the ones where I'm choosing between putting a bullet in your head or pinning you down long enough for me to fuck you. What then, Dean?"

Dean slams a hand down and whirls around then, gets right up in Sam's face the same way Sam's so determined to get up in his.

"Stop saying it like it was you."

Something in Sam snaps, Dean sees it, the quick narrowing of his eyes before his hand slams against Dean's chest, shoving him back. His lower back, already sore from where he'd hit the work station earlier, hits the counter and he hisses out a low, dirty 'fuck'. But Sam isn't letting him dwell on it. Dean sees the long lines of Sam's fingers, dirt filled nails and then Sam's hand is locked around his jaw, forcing Dean's chin up and forcing him to look up at him.

Dean's already lifting his hand to make him back the fuck off—

"Hey Dean, why don't you stop with the bullshit. Because it _was_ me."

And then Sam is crowding him into the counter, his body a fevered heat against Dean. His fingers press hard into Dean's cheeks—force his mouth open, long enough for Sam to lay one rough, uncomfortable press of his mouth on Dean's. And Dean doesn't do anything. The hand he’d lifted to shove Sam away fists in Sam’s shirt instead. The stickiness of blood rubs onto Dean's fingers but his mind is a blank slate.

He notices, in the same way someone under shock would, the hard press of Sam's thigh between his, the smell of sweat and metallic blood, the angry rise and fall of Sam's chest against his.

And then with a harsh rasp of his teeth over Dean's bottom lip, Sam lets go and steps back. His jaw is locked tight, soft dark eyes brimming with frustration and anger trying to push to the forefront—confusion too—but he turns his back on Dean. For a second Dean thinks he's going to walk back outside. But he walks over to the bathroom instead, back corded with tension.

He slams the door shut behind him.

It's only when he hears the shower start that Dean stops staring at the wall. He blinks down at the beer he'd set on the counter, then at the hand he'd had wrapped in Sam's shirt. The tips of his fingers are smudged with red.

He picks up his beer, resists the urge to lick his lips, and drinks it all down.

~

Sam kissed him.

It had been clumsy, pissed off and uncomfortable. But Dean wasn’t immediately sick afterwards. And after draining his beer and taking himself to bed, Dean had spent the night facing away from Sam and jerking in and out of sleep every twenty minutes or so.

Now, up early, it's easy to slip into routine mode. Pack up, clean out the room, move on.

Dean slides into the Impala and automatically feels soothed despite the way they've been working around each other since getting up.

When Sam slides into the car beside him, settled in and ready to go, Dean feels some of the turmoil ease enough for him to chance a look at his brother. Sam's already slipped down in his seat, giant legs folded up and his head resting against the window.

It's only when Dean fails to start the car that Sam looks over at him for the first time since waking up. He's unsmiling, eyes the color of freshly fallen leaves, a vivid mesh of yellow and green that mark the passing of summer into autumn.

They hadn't been that color the night before when Sam kissed him.

Despite himself, Dean simply stares back. There's no point in pretending it didn't happen and he's tired, really fucking tired of things going wrong around them. They don't need to add to the mix themselves. So yeah, he lets himself look, feels gratified when Sam's gaze widens slightly and he shifts, lips parting—probably to ask Dean why he's acting like a creeper. Except Sam doesn't say anything and his mouth twists into a soft frown instead.

And it's almost like Dean hears a click, he feels a tightness like he's trying to hold too much oxygen in at once and it's not _his_ feeling. It's Sam's. But Dean feels the need to take a deep breath anyway, try and ease it away. He cuts his eyes away and reaches for the keys and the second he does, the feeling eases up.

The thrum of the engine comforts him, as does the feel of the wheel under his hands when he pulls out of the parking lot.

Sam's watching him the entire time.

Dean's not as uncomfortable with that as he thinks he should be.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s late afternoon when they get to Bobby’s.

Dean takes his time, not hurrying even after Sam gets his bag out the trunk and heads inside. He sends a questioning look over his shoulder at Dean. Dean motions with his head at the trunk and Sam seems to get it because he heads on up to the house.

When Dean comes in with the rest of the stuff from the car, Bobby is standing at the desk. He's got a bottle of whiskey in his hand and two glasses on the table.

Dean drops their stuff by the door and shrugs out of his jacket before walking over and rubbing his hands over his face. He takes the chair in front of Bobby's desk, settling back and nodding at Bobby in thanks when he finishes pouring the drink and nudges the glass towards him. He knocks it back in one as Bobby sits down.

"Where's Sam?"

Bobby nurses his drink as he leans back in the chair, tugs his cap lower over his face and crosses his feet. "Said he was gonna wash up." He watches Dean, blue gaze ready and calm. "Seemed a bit tense Everything okay?"

Dean leans forward to grab the bottle. He unscrews it quickly and pours himself another glass. He's tempted to ask whether Bobby really wants to be aware that their problems now extend to possible incest. He snorts into the glass as he takes a calmer sip this time. "You mean apart from the fact that we got jack shit?"

Bobby stares at him a moment longer then sighs and drinks. "You boys did what you could. We'll keep searchin'."

Dean nods and looks down into the amber liquid tilting in his glass. He knows just as well as Bobby that they probably won't be seeing those missing people again.

"Dean."

Dean looks up.

"You sure you and Sam are okay?"

Dean sets the drink back on the desk. He tips his head and sucks his teeth. "Aside from the damn wall crapping out on us?" He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, ruba the dry taste of the whiskey over it and it helps to drive away the sense memory of sweat and blood on his mouth that Sam left behind. His hand clenches on his thigh and he doesn't realize he's rubbing at his mouth, forefinger harsh on his lips as he feels it again.

The sense of something trying to make space in his stomach to fit itself there and park its ass down. This time the feeling is somewhere between nausea and the first brushes of arousal.

He shakes his head again when he realizes Bobby's still waiting. "It's fine Bobby. Nothing we can't handle."

~

The dream that wakes Dean up this time is bloody.

When he opens his eyes he's still breathing hard from the adrenalin that had been pumping through Sam's system in that particular memory. He can still feel how tacky his hands are, the crack of bone against his palms, blunt. The sound of it is still echoing in his head. His hands are clenched around the covers and sheets of the bed but he's still inside the memories, still hearing the old woman's last croak, the sound overtaken by the snap of her neck.

It takes Dean longer than usual to come back to himself and he swallows. He runs his tongue over the inside of his lips and tastes blood along the seam of his lip.

He'd almost forgotten about these dreams. Recently, it had been so many of those _other_ memories that for a while there, Dean had forgotten the sheer cold-blooded violence that occurred so often in Sam's memories.

It's ridiculous that he could forget at all.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears Sam on the other bed, a restless move and then the quiet sound of bare feet hitting the floor. Dean turns his head to stare at Sam's hunched back. He sees the deliberate way Sam runs his hands over his head and the stiff jerk when he jars his bad shoulder. Sam stands up, steps slow as he walks towards the door.

Dean's not sure what makes him do it. Maybe the need to make it okay, because even though he's already acknowledged a while ago that Sam doesn't need him for everything, he maybe still needs Dean for some things.

Because even after all this time and the shit they've been through, apparently Dean still means safety to his brother. And despite the new element in their relationship, an unknown that feels as delicate and unstable as a house of matches, if that's what Sam needs from him, then Dean will make sure he gets it.

"Sam."

Sam stiffens. He turns his head enough for Dean to see the curve of his jaw, a slice of cheekbone. The t-shirt he's wearing is soaked, etching a darker grey that tapers off at the small of Sam's back.

"Let me guess. It wasn't me, right?"

Dean doesn’t answer. By Sam's tone, he's not really asking for it either.

After a few seconds Dean pushes the covers off himself and gets up.

He walks past Sam, ignoring the look Sam gives him as he reaches for the door and quietly closes it. It cuts off the light from the corridor.

Bobby's probably dragged himself off to bed. Either that or he's asleep at the desk.

Sam stays put and watches Dean, head slightly tilted, face guarded, unsure of what's going on.

Dean reaches out, ruffles his hand in Sam's hair and can't help the grin that bursts onto his face when Sam instantly jerks away and glares at him, a 'what the hell, Dean' look on his face.

And it hits him. It hits him that it feels easy, that right now, he can put his hand on the back of Sam's neck and tug him down—and it probably won't feel as batshit crazy as he thinks it will. And Sam won't pull away from him.

The thought makes him sweat and to get rid of it he forces a smirk on his face, tousles Sam's hair some more and gets his hand slapped away and an even dirtier look for his trouble. And he can deal with that no problem. It helps snap him back into place. Right now that's not what he's meant to be thinking about.

Sam turns to watch as Dean rounds his bed to get to the other side. Dean keeps his head firmly turned away from Sam as he gets in, eyes fixed stubbornly on the wall on the other side.

He hears Sam clear his throat once he has his head down on Sam's pillow and the covers up to his waist.

"Just go to sleep Sam."

"I don't—"

"Go to sleep, man. Been a long day."

Sam doesn't move. Dean can feel his stare like a weight on his back but he doesn’t budge either. He doesn't want to take this back because he's pretty sure that if he does, he won't be able to put even this much, back on offer again.

"Dean. That's my pillow."

Dean doesn't say anything, instead he closes his eyes, his mouth threatening to twitch up into another smile, ignoring the seriousness of the moment and trying for a stupid smile at how whiny Sam had sounds.

"Not getting up again, Sam. You want a pillow go get one."

"But—you're closer!" And now he just sounds exasperated, and while the memory isn't forgotten, it's pushed back enough to allow them both to go back to sleep.

When Dean doesn't speak again, Sam stomps—literally _stomps_ —over to the other bed. He grabs the pillow and comes back. The bed groans and dips as Sam gets in beside him.

It's cramped but Dean's slept in worse conditions and he can deal with it easy. It's only when he feels the hard line of Sam's back press tight against his that he feels discomfort. He can feel the bumps of Sam's spine pressing uncomfortably against his own for a second before Sam adjusts and slots against him, the warmth of him spreading across Dean's back.

It's the jerk of awareness, short and intense, that has the smile fading from Dean's face. He has to force himself not to shift away, to take it back and go return to his bed. Not because he minds the closeness. He can already feel Sam relaxing into the mattress, as if just having Dean close is enough to soothe him.

What has Dean looking at a sleepless night is the fact that the gut clenching stab of want he feels now, isn't a remnant of some soulless dick’s screwed up memory.

He feels Sam burrow deeper into the bed, the last of the tension leaving him.

The problem is that right now, everything Dean's feeling. It’s all him.

~

"Hey."

Dean pokes his head out from behind the Impala, pausing in the middle of scrubbing down the door to find Sam standing on the other inside, jacket on and hands tucked into the pockets. The sun has some glare to it but not much warmth. There's a touch of chill to the breeze that speaks of oncoming rain but Dean feels warm and loose from the routine task of washing the car.

He's relaxed too; the rhythm of it always eases him into a blank headspace, just letting him work through the job.

He drops the rag he'd been using back into the bright yellow bucket and it plops down into the dirty water, flimsy bubbles rising to the surface to pop. He reaches for the worn towel on the floor to wipe his hands.

"Hey."

Sam nods his head at the steps leading up into the house and Dean wonders briefly when they started doing this without the aid of alcohol, but as Sam turns to go in, he follows.

There's no noise inside, not even the TV in the background or Bobby grumbling. No sign of him either when Dean looks around.

"Bobby not around?"

Sam heads into the kitchen and over to the table where there's already an open can of coke. He picks it back up and leans against the counter. "No. He went into town, said he was meeting up with the sheriff."

Dean nods and catches the can Sam tosses at him and stops by the table.

"So I was thinking. We should talk." Sam drops his eyes to the can in his hand. "Not like before."

Dean takes that in stride. "Okay."

Sam nods. This time the silence, although tense, isn't the kind where Dean expects one or both of them to explode.

"This thing—what Cas said." Sam thumbs at the stay-tab of his can as he talks. "The synching thing. I don't know how it happened and. I didn't mean it to happen. I need to know you're okay with that."

"It's not something that can be undone, man. We'll get used to it."

"Dean, this isn't—it's like getting in each other's heads. What we get to keep to ourselves is small enough as it is."

"We'll work on it." Because that's what they do. That's what they always do. And yeah, so he's not thrilled about it. But his brother stays sane and if all he has to do is put up with a few extra nightmares, he's okay with that. Never mind that these are almost constant. The finer points, like Sam hearing him in his head, or Dean knowing exactly what Sam's feeling at any given moment—well, they can work on that too.

Sam takes that in and after a moment he swallows, nods. His thumb is rubbing back and forth over the length of the can now, going along the wave of white on red that runs the length of it. "Huh. Well that was uh. Not as intense a conversation as I was expecting."

Dean scoots up onto the table. "Not everyone's a drama whore, Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Don't be a dick."

Dean pops his own can and takes a drink.

"What about the other thing."

Dean cups the can in both hands and shakes his head once. "I gotta tell ya, I really wouldn't mind skipping that one Sam."

"Kind of an important one though, don't you think?"

"Depends on how you look at it."

"I think it'll be same no matter what, Dean.”

Dean shrugs and let's his gaze wander over to the window, eyes fixing on the part of scrap yard he can see.

"I didn't. Think about you that way about you before."

"I didn't think you did."

"No—just, just let me finish." Dean doesn't say anything to that and Sam seems to take it as a go ahead. "I never thought of you like that, I mean," he laughs, the sound not pleasant, it sounds hollowed out maybe a little bewildered too, "you're my brother and we're screwed up but. Never like this."

"With you there." Dean mutters, takes another gulp. But Sam goes on like he hasn't heard him, and maybe he hasn't, because it sounds like he's on a roll now.

"And I could've done with not knowing. The first time it happened? I got a glimpse of what I'd been doing then."

"Worse than pointing a gun at my head or jerking off to me in a motel bathroom?"

"Similar, actually." Sam's voice comes out tight and Dean lowers his head. He hadn't meant to sound like he was laying blame on anyone. "Couldn't look at you right for days after without feeling sick."

Well, that was honest. "Good to know."

"Yeah."

Dean swallows. There's not much he can say. He can't imagine being hit with all of that crap at once. His own share of hell had been enough. He doesn't want to know how much worse it was for Sam. It's enough that he knows that it was probably that much worse, that much longer for his brother. He can't help the voice in his head that still hasn't learned that Sam isn't a kid and that Dean can't protect him from everything. In the end, when push came to shove, they'd both had their finger on the trigger. It's the way it's always been.

Sam sighs, the sound short and impatient; frustrated. "Then I started considering it. We'd be doing something and I'd look at you and in that second I'd see something I'd seen while I was... like that. And I'd understand, there'd be this moment, where I'd get it. Now it's there. And what I did yesterday." Sam lapses into silence then and runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do here, man."

That makes two of them.

Except that Dean shouldn't remember every detail of what it'd felt like to have Sam's mouth pressed against his. Except that he should've erased from his mind exactly how Sam feels when he's jerking himself off but he hasn't. He knows how Sam's stomach feels, taut and firm, covered in sleek skin beneath Sam's calloused hands.

Except that the last few nights, every time Dean looks at Sam, any form of arousal he feels comes from his own head and not robot Sam's twisted mind-fuckery.

Dean pushes away from the table and hides the slight tremble of his fingers by putting the can down. Then he faces Sam.

There's the taste of panic, acrid and sharp in the back of his throat as he rubs his palms down the front of his jeans and glances up at his brother.

Sam's watching him with a tired look on his face; something of an apology lurking there too. Even though its’ not really what Dean wants to see, it makes things easier. It's proof that this really is Sam, that this is them and not another replay of something that happened before.

And that should be enough to deter him, to stop him from closing the distance between them, from feeling the thrill, electric and surprisingly sobering, at the base of his spine when Sam straightens up against the counter, fingers tightening so hard around the can that the aluminum crunches in his grip.

When Dean stops in front of Sam it feels like he's back in Knoxville, with the heat wave washing over him, seeping in through every pore. If it was any other situation, Dean would've found the hint of panic on Sam's face a little funny. As it is, it looks more like Sam's not entirely sure if Dean's just gearing up to punch him in the face.

He's close enough that he can smell the coffee beneath the sweetness of the coke Sam's been drinking and the light scent of sweat just edging into the mix. And shit, but this is awkward.

But Dean knows. He knows that if he stops now, this is going to stay, like a splinter right in the centre of his thumb, sinking deeper until he can't get to it anymore and goes crazy trying to dig it out.

Sam sets his can aside. His eyes don't leave Dean's face and he doesn't move back. And Dean takes that as acquiescence. The rush he feels when he allows himself to openly stare at Sam's mouth feels a little like getting his head knocked into concrete all over again.

His hands are surprisingly steady when they reach for Sam, rough palms grazing Sam's shirt before he swallows and lets his hands settle on the hard lines of Sam's waist.

He’s not in the least bit familiar with this, and just like that he's back to wondering what the fuck he's doing because this is Sam. Not a mistake he can walk away from in the morning. It's ridiculous because all this time he was so caught up in the fact that this is his brother that he hadn't even taken the time to think about the other side of it. There are no breasts to feel, sweet and soft, pillowed against his chest. At the same time, this is Sam and so it's a weird hybrid of familiar and alien wrapped in one. There's nothing in particular that he wants to touch and his hands flex on Sam and Dean questions what got him across the kitchen to begin with. It wasn't like the kiss they'd shared had been all rainbows and shit. It had been sudden and just. There.

Dean lets out a derisive laugh and it's soft and low; and he eases back.

But Sam lifts his hand and runs it up the side of his neck, thumb rubbing over the long cut there.

"Dean."

It's just his name, not said with any particular inflection, just a quiet tone. Just Sam saying his name. And Dean stays. Waits.

And when Sam lowers his head, breath fanning over Dean's cheek, Dean's mouth, Dean meets him halfway because he's already there and he's not gonna pussy out.

It's the same as before, minus the shock of it.

It's just a warm press of mouth on mouth, dry and. There's nothing.

Dean turns his face away, feels his cheeks heat because now it's worse than before. The awkward feels like it's trying to climb down his throat and twist into any organ within reach. "Guess not." He steps back but Sam lets out this little frustrated noise.

"That's not it." Sam mutters. "I know that's not it." And he puts his other hand on Dean's neck too, getting Dean to look at him, surprised and thinking, _seriously?_ Because he can't have been the only one to see that it didn't work—that this was just another side effect of living with a fucked up version of Sam's memories for a month or two.

But Sam's face is screwed into something like pain and he licks his mouth, leans down again and this time he tilts his head to the side.

And it's softer and his mouth fits Dean's.

Dean blinks, startled, and Sam traces the line of his mouth with his tongue and fuck. Okay. That's new. Dean curls his fingers into Sam's shirt, fists it tight because he's thinking that if Sam can go for it then he's not gonna lag behind and have it thrown in his face later. He lets his eyes close. The kiss changes the moment his mouth turns pliant and opens.

And it's still weird—because, it's—

And his thought process is stopped because Sam moulds one hand to his hip, drags him in and pushes his tongue into Dean's mouth.

Dean doesn't get lost in it. Not that way.

He's aware of every single thing he does. He's aware of moving a hand to the back of Sam's neck, of tightening his grip on him. And Sam is pushing for more, opening Dean up wider as if he's trying to climb in.

Sam moves, using the entire bulk of himself to nudge Dean until their positions are reversed and Dean is the one pressed against the counter. His hands end up on Sam's back, rough, doing the best he can in unfamiliar territory. Sam's taller than him and Dean's in the unusual position of having to tilt his head back for someone else. But it seems to be doing the job because his dick is getting with the program, arousal mixing in and diluting the instinctive feeling of wrongness.

Sam pulls away, panting against Dean's mouth and his eyes are half mast and a rainforest green. And he's staring right at Dean's lips. "Fuck. Dean," he buries his face against Dean's neck. His fingers bite into Dean's hip and he grinds forward, the hard bulge of Sam's cock rocking against Dean's thigh through two layers of denim, "he was right. So fucking right."

And Dean has to flatten his hands on the planes of Sam's back, let them sweep down until he's holding on to Sam's hips. He freezes though, when one of his hands finds skin. Sam's shirt is caught a little higher between their bodies, hitching up with every grind of his hips against Dean's and his skin is smooth under Dean's calloused hand. Sam doesn't stop the rocking movement, just slows it down, breath hitching as he finds the rhythm, the pressure he wants. Hard and slow and Dean feels the pleasure skittering up his spine and then falling in a dive straight to his groin.

"Easy, Sam, easy." He strokes along the lines of Sam's hipbones with his thumbs. The memory of Sam's hand rubbing over his own skin feels like a pale shade in comparison to the real thing and Dean spreads his hands over it, fingers gripping too hard. He tilts his head back, forgetting for a second why this should be hard and complicated, and rasps his teeth over Sam's lower lip.

Sam's breathing falls hot and hard onto the back of Dean's neck and he's grabbing onto the counter now as he ruts against Dean. Little groans leave him with each slow grind and Dean feels the blood pooling low, a warm heady weight low in his belly. Dean pushes his hands up under Sam's shirt, feeling his way over each defined muscle. He widens his stance and lets Sam slot in closer until there's barely any space between them.

"Shit, Dean, some of the things he wanted to do to you. That _I_ wanted to do to you." He pulls on Dean's shoulders, tugging him away from the counter. "But—not here. Bobby."

Dean pulls away but Sam takes it as an invitation to just wrap his hands around his face and nip at his mouth. He's trying to curl himself around Dean.

Except that this is moving too fast. This isn't what he meant to happen but. _Shit_.

They don't fit right, they don't. But they're still stumbling across the floor and Sam doesn't let him go. He's running his hands over Dean like if he doesn't touch all of him now, he’ll never get to.

The taste of coke is sticky on his tongue as they work their way up the stairs.

They don't make it to the bed and Dean's grateful for that. This is already skirting over the edges of his comfort zone. But he ends up pressed against the closed door to their bedroom, rutting against Sam, the firm muscle of Sam's thigh making Dean swear under his breath. And his head thumps back against the door, his eyes running over Sam's flushed face, down to the exposed column of Sam's neck. Sam's thigh presses tight against his balls and Dean groans, sways forward.

It turns out the line of Sam's throat is something he really needs to put his teeth to so he does. He clenches his hand in Sam's hair, the strands damp and sticking to his skin. His grip is probably uncomfortable as hell but he tugs Sam's head back. Sam makes this hoarse sound in his throat as Dean rakes his teeth over the bump of his Adam's apple. That one noise—the effect it has on Dean shakes him to the core and he shudders against Sam. His clothes feel like too much, clinging and in the way. At the same time, Dean knows having them on is one of the few things that are keeping him from freaking right the fuck out.

"Christ," Dean lets his head fall back, not really minding when it hits the door again, this time a little harder. "S'that what you want Sam?" He's not sure how much time has passed since Sam asked him his question but Dean continues it like they'd never stopped in the first place. "The things he wanted?"

Sam's hands slow. He gulps air against Dean's shoulder but he can't quite stay still. His dick is hard, poking at Dean through their clothes. And shit that's so messed up. Except that Dean can't bring himself to stop the soft undulation of Sam's hips. He can't pull his fingers away from the hot skin he's got his hands on.

Sam's got his fingers tucked into Dean's jeans, has wormed them in inside Dean's briefs too. Dean doesn't really know when Sam managed to unbutton his jeans and somewhere in the back of his mind, he's kind of impressed. Sam pushes his hand in a little more and the backs of his fingers brush against the short, crisp hairs there.

Dean's hand is tight on the back of Sam's neck. He wonders how the hell they're going to explain all the marks that are gonna be on Sam tomorrow and curses as his cock practically jumps in his pants at the thought. The image of Sam all marked up from his mouth isn't something Dean thought he'd have a kink for. Huh. Just another thing he hadn't known.

"Yeah." Sam says it so quietly that Dean almost misses it. But he hears it and he closes his eyes. He nods a short stilted jerk of his head that has his chin brushing against Sam's.

Sam's hand slides lower and he pushes Dean's jeans down until they're hanging down off his hips. Dean tenses, expecting the touch on his cock but instead Sam pulls back. His eyes are sharp, his face flushed and his mouth a bruised-looking pink that pushes at Dean's imagination; he sees Sam on his knees, mouth slipping over the head of Dean's cock. The images hit him like blows to the chest and he's stunned and breathless, struggling to keep up with how fast the last of their walls are collapsing around them.

Despite that, the urgency that hit them downstairs, after Sam had gotten it _right_ , has toned down and Dean is brought back to the now when Sam steps back. He puts just enough space between them to be able to reach for the hem of his shirt. He tugs it up and over his head, only the slightest grimace on his face from his wound.

Dean licks his lips, noting the soft throb there from too hard kisses and watches Sam drop his shirt to the floor and nudge back in with his nose, rubbing it along the curve of Dean's jaw. His fingers tug questioningly on Dean's shirt and Dean can't help the hint of a smile.

"Yeah. Yeah." He lets go of Sam and pulls his t-shirt off too, gets his hand on the back of Sam's head as soon as he's free and before he can rethink the pace they're going at, he leans back in. He slants his mouth over Sam's, shoves his lips apart and slides in, slick and warm because, Christ, he really likes the feel of Sam's mouth beneath his.

"He wanted..." Sam says, mouthing at his ear now, tongue wet and teeth a tight pinch on the curve of his ear. He grinds against Dean, his jeans chafing against Dean's hard flesh and Dean's not sure whether to edge away or rut against him harder.

Dean makes an effort to try and figure out what part of the conversation they're on now but it doesn't work, settles for dropping his hands to Sam's ass, squeezes through the stiff layer of denim and groans a filthy _fuck_ because, Christ, it's tight, fills his hands just perfect.

Sam seems to be going in the same direction, his hands spreading over the cheeks of Dean's ass, caught between the door and Dean's body. Except his middle finger trails down the crack of Dean's ass—rests his weight against Dean when he tries to jerk his hips away, sealing Dean against the door.

"Sam." Dean's hands tighten on Sam's ass and he shoves harder against him, and they're both sweating and sticky. Sam tucks his other arm around Dean, hand coming round to pin Dean into stillness by latching onto his hip. Then he strokes the pad of his finger down over the tight hole there, hips a steady roll against Dean's.

"Shit." Yeah this is—he's not sure how he likes this. "Dude—"

But Sam's pressing tiny kisses, sweet and unexpected to the corner of Dean's mouth, soft presses that make Dean feel exposed. Like he can't fucking say no. "Please Dean," he murmurs, "just this. I swear. Just this." And he pushes in. And fuck that's not meant to be there and he'll be kicking Sam's ass for that one later. But Sam just groans, mouth open against Dean's cheek. Dean can feel his eyelashes dusting over his cheekbone, can feel the wet drag of his mouth as Sam opens it on the bolt of his jaw and sucks there. All the while, Sam's hips keep moving, keep rocking against Dean's erection and he pushes his finger in deeper. It's dry and uncomfortable and man, does it feel like something's going the wrong way but Dean's opening up around it, feeling it probe deeper.

"Man, this isn't—" Dean doesn't finish, his fingers dig into the taut muscle of Sam's ass, drag Sam harder against his cock, keep him moving even as he tries to edge up and away from the unexpected invasion. He can feel Sam, cock straining against the jeans they haven't bothered trying to take off, and it's nudging against the underside of Dean's balls.

And for some crazy reason Sam thinks it's a good idea to try getting another finger in there and Dean's mouth falls open as he feels that index finger prying him open even more, squeezing inside alongside the other. And it stings like a motherfucker as Sam pushes them both in as deep as they can go, muttering a litany of _Dean-Dean-Dean_ between the nips and the pull of his lips on Dean's cheek, undeterred by the stubble.

Dean slips one hand away from Sam's ass, traces the sweaty line of Sam's spine up. His palm flattens right beneath Sam's shoulder blades, then his fingers curl in tight, blunt nails scraping at Sam's slippery skin.

And even though the chafing is starting to hurt—when Sam's fingers curl inside his ass, find whatever it is that they're looking for, Dean turns his face away. His head falls to Sam's shoulder, feeling the ridge of one of the cuts there, against his skin. Dean tightens his hold on him, trying to open his legs wider for that nudge against his dick, the friction on his cock and the fingers that are doing whatever the hell it is that they're doing.

Sam hits that spot again and that's all it takes.

"Shit." His eyes squeeze shut and he comes, biting into cusp of Sam's shoulder, cock twitching as he holds Sam still, smearing come over Sam's jeans, on their stomachs.

Sam presses his mouth to Dean's temple, jaw clenched tight as he stills on one hard thrust and Dean feels the tiny shudders against his belly. He loosens his grip on Sam but leaves his hands where they are as the tension leaves Sam's body, his hips still undulating, tiny movements, milking it. Then he slumps against Dean, pliant and sweaty.

After a few seconds Dean opens his eyes. He summons the energy from somewhere and lifts his hands, pushing at Sam until he finally moves. Sam tugs his fingers out and Dean winces, shifting back, tugging up his jeans one handed.

He feels drained, more than he had the day before. Sam just shifts to Dean's side, and he's leaning his forehead against the door when Dean looks at him.

Dean rubs a hand over his face, trying to clear the post-sex haze from his head then reaches for Sam. It surprises him when he automatically reaches for the back of Sam's neck, hand open on his nape. Not Sam's arm or his shoulder. But the gesture is instinctive, feels proprietary in a way it never has before. Sam turns his head and looks at him, the red still high on his cheeks. Dean just nods towards the beds.

Sam's eyes close again but he follows under the pressure of Dean's hand, lays down when Dean pushes him to, big body spreading out, loose and uncaring of the grit of sweat and come. Dean sits down on the edge. He looks down at the mess on his stomach and wonders if he should go and pick something up to wipe them both down. But then Sam hooks a hand over his shoulder and jerks him down beside him.

So Dean lies back, one leg hanging off the bed, foot planted on the floor. They're pressed shoulder to shoulder.

He closes his eyes, listens to Sam's breaths. That's how they fall asleep.

~

When Dean wakes up, it takes him a second to put the pieces together, remember where he is, and realize what's pinning him down. He grunts under the weight and when he looks, Sam's still there.

Sam's relaxed in sleep and taking up too much of the covers.

Dean settles back against the warmth of the pillows, trying to disturb the bed as little as possible. His eyes stay on Sam's face.

The red lines of the cuts stand out on Sam's shoulder and Dean frowns, thinking Sam should have kept the bandages on for a little longer. The stretch of Sam's neck is covered in bite marks and Dean wonders again, and this time with a straight head, how they're gonna explain that one to Bobby.

The skin of his stomach itches.

He resists the urge to groan and gets up slowly. He digs out a shirt from his bag before walking on quiet feet out of the room.

He goes to the bathroom and wipes off the come with a wet towel, the checks on Sam once more before going downstairs.

The house creaks quietly around him, meaning Bobby still isn't back. He slips back out through the kitchen and stands out front, staring at the Impala for a few seconds. The sun is sinking already but its light is warmer and he lets it heat him up a moment before going down the steps.

~

Lying in the back of the Impala is where Sam finds him a few hours later.

He's dozing, arm over his face, ankles crossed. Blue Oyster Cult is coming from the front of the car.

The car dips and shakes as Sam gets in and shuts the door.

Dean doesn't need to lift his arm to check who it is. Bobby would've just peered in on him and moved on.

"Bobby's back. He brought dinner."

Dean just hums at him.

The chorus of _Burning for You_ comes and goes before Sam speaks again.

"You okay?"

"Are you?"

There's the squeak of leather shifting. Sam turns around in his seat.

The scent of soap is distinctive, mixing with the smell of old leather and Dean realizes the bastard's taken a shower. Not that he couldn't have taken one too. He'd just wanted the comfort of his car around him for a bit. Just something to steady him. He hadn't meant to stay in it so long, it’d just happened that way. When a cassette had played out, he'd reached into the front and slipped in another one before settling back down.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Sam." He peers out from under his arm as Sam twists back round to face the front.

"Maybe. Maybe we shouldn't have just done things like that."

That makes Dean scoff. "Yeah well, planning hasn't ever done us much good, Sammy." They'd never had any kind of structure to their lives. So it makes some sense that everything they do never has much structure to it either. Although, Dean doesn't think that's entirely true of everything they've done up till now. They're consistent with some things. The ones that matter as far as Dean's concerned.

"You're not freaking out over this."

Dean sighs. "Yeah, just be glad you're not inside my head right now."

"No. But. I can _tell_ you're not."

Dean lets that sink in, and knows it has to do with what Castiel told them. Huh.

"So. What now?"

Dean shrugs. "Not like we can take it back."

"You want to?"

Dean doesn't reply. He hasn't thought about it like that. What's done is done. And even if he'd spent that first half hour in the car freaking the fuck out, he'd stepped down from that. Lightning hadn't struck him down for letting his little brother hump him and finger him into next week against the damned door, or participating with way more interest than he should've had to begin with.

And Sam is sitting in his car with him. Being Sam.

Given their history, it could have been worse.

When Sam speaks again it's quieter. "I liked it."

Dean opens his eyes. He stares at the pink blur that is his arm.

"I want it again. I'm going to want it again, Dean. What happens then? Because this is me now, we can't use those memories as an excuse."

Dean frowns. "Who said I was going to?"

It's Sam's turn to sigh and it's so damned normal that Dean almost forgets what it is exactly, that they're discussing. "That's not what I'm saying.”

Dean pulls his arm down and let's it flop down into the foot well so he can glare at Sam. Sam is looking right back. "Why do you have to fuck with the afterglow?"

"Dude. This isn't an afterglow."

Dean's gaze slips away to the ceiling of the car. "Look. We can't take it back. And. I'm pretty sure pretending it didn't happen is out of the question. And that doesn't mean I want us to," he gives Sam a hard look, "that's not what I'm saying here. But. One step at a time man. This is pretty up in the land of FUBAR. Even for us."

Sam eases back into his seat, looking elsewhere. "Yeah. Okay." But the question mark when Sam had come into the car is gone and the music fills the small space. The car shakes again as Dean resettles too.

"We'll have to go in soon. Bobby's gonna start yelling about wasting money on feeding us."

Dean drops his arm back over his face. "What else is new." But there's a smile tugging at his lips. "Give it a few more minutes."

He hears Sam snort, can see him shaking his head from underneath the shadow of his arm.

They settle down and wait for the song to play out.

It's just another thing that can screw them up. But Dean has a feeling they'll be okay.

They'll make it fit.

 

THE END


End file.
